FateCounterfeit
by tallgeese
Summary: One day in the year of 2030, all mana vanished from the face of the earth. This story, an alternate retelling of the events leading up to this, is a tragedy of ambition, revenge, and fourteen souls willing to risk their lives for a single chance to make the impossible a reality.
1. The Players Assemble, Part 1

**Chapter 1:**

 **The players assemble (part 1)**

 **Tin Man**

 **Glasgow, Scotland**

 **September 21st, 2030**

 **6:45 PM**

Carlo rose from his knees and wiped his brow, looking down at his handiwork with a sense of smug satisfaction. A broad circle, colored the silvery red of the blend of blood and mercury which had painted it, stretched across just more than three meters of the concrete floor of the warehouse. He was never an artistic man, but he had to confess that he'd outdone himself this time! There were lines drawn in intersecting arrays, which formed a star pattern within the circular border. Along these lines he'd inscribed a series of runes, which he used to spell out the summoning incantation his family had kept hidden away for generations.

He had been busy for the past three hours, alone in the center of the long-deserted warehouse he had purchased for this purpose. The interior of the building itself was naught but a wide, empty expanse of dust and concrete, completely concealed from the outer world save for the skylights arranged in the ceiling above him, which deposited the ever-decreasing light of the setting sun outside to illuminate him as he labored. This was good. Space and privacy were the two ingredients he required most of all. The ritual this venue would play host to this evening was one that needed to remain a secret.

The tip of his toe found its way to the base of the painted canvas beneath him, causing the entire array to glow faintly. The ingredients of the paint he'd used were designed to be a catalyst for magical energy, and true to this design he could feel his magic circuits- the web of veinlike pathways his body had developed to allow the flow of mana from his core- flare open and pulse with anticipation in response to the contact. This amused Carlo, but he forced the flow of energy to halt for now. This summoning circle itself was only half of what he needed to perform his miracle.

The sound of chains pulling and metal scraping on metal suddenly echoed throughout the area, forcing him to abandon his ruminations and self-congratulations, and instead to cast a bright green eye towards the large retractable door that served as the entrance to the warehouse. The door itself was large and heavy, only opened from a locked panel on either side of the front wall, which would cause it to retract up into the ceiling. He had a visitor, and a small smile crossed his lips as he realized who it was. The orange light of the setting sun flooded into the warehouse from its new aperture, impeded by nothing, save the outline of a young woman.

She was short, almost exceptionally so, with a thin frame concealed inside a modest gray blouse and a skirt of similar color, which extended down to her calves. Her limbs were stubby, and one of her arms rested on a sling, which was used to connect a large object to her back. Her black hair was cut into a short bob that framed the pointed features of her face, and she peered into the darkness of the warehouse with dark brown eyes protected by the thick lenses of her glasses.

"Do you have any idea hard it was to find this place, Carlo?" She announced with some frustration, squinting for a moment to confirm that he was there before she finally started to head inside to meet with him. He chuckled warmly at this, shrugging melodramatically.

"But you found it! See? I was right to have faith in you, Jessica! You even brought my catalyst with you. Aww, it's almost as big as you are! It's kinda cute to see you lugging it around." He crossed his arms and nodded, as if in agreement with himself. Jessica gave his words all the consideration she felt they deserved, which is to say, none at all, and simply walked over to him. The item he spoke of was what she had slung over her shoulder: a kite shield whose outline he could barely see above the strap on her shoulder that supported it. If she'd found it then both of the components of his ritual were here at last.

Jessica abruptly came to a stop a few steps shy of him, however, her lips twisting into a grimace as she brought a hand over her nose protectively.

"Did something die in here? It reeks." Her body shook in repulsion as she spoke, but it took Carlo a moment to understand what she was talking about. When it clicked in his mind, he snapped his fingers, and jerked his head toward the circle he'd assembled.

"Oh, right. My nose had gone blind to it, so I forgot. I thought the mercury would help the blood to keep fresh for longer, and it spread out fine when I made the circle, but it definitely has an odor to it." Jessica moved closer to the circle as he said this, her hand still masking her lower face as she crouched to inspect his handiwork.

"Wait, is this human blood?" She looked back at the young mage, her expression perplexed. She had been his assistant since he came of age, many years ago. At thirty-three years old, she was seven years his senior, although any who saw them would assume the gap to be in the opposite direction. Carlo was a tall, lanky man, well over six feet tall. Not only was his height imposing, but he had the importance of image impressed upon him at a young age. (in no small amount by Jessica herself.) As the mage who inherited his family's crest, it was important that any stranger could tell his importance at a glance. As such, he was normally clad in a dark blue silk blazer with matching slacks and black, wing-tip shoes. His dishwater blonde hair was kept somewhat long, running most of the way down his neck, but kept shining with the gel which slicked back his bangs.

"Well, yeah! Oh, but it's not like I killed anyone, or anything. Other countries are quite gung-ho about executions. Earlier this year I just arranged to buy the blood from a pair of inmates with high magical potential. You know, take advantage of a bad situation to-" He stopped himself abruptly, his eyes going wide. He gritted his teeth and cast his gaze downward. "Ah, I understand your reaction now. I thought a normal person would behave as I had, since I didn't kill anyone myself. Your expression tells me that my pragmatism in this situation was still a bit too callous. A normal person would find what I've done horrifying." His voice changed as he said this, taking on a somber tone, as though he were a child who had just lost at a game.

"Oh, stop pouting." replied Jessica, sensing the change in his mood. "Learning that kind of thing is what you want to win the grail for in the first place, right? I'll be supporting you during the war, so I can keep you straight until then." She reached around her shoulder, letting the shield fall free against the strap she used to hold it aloft. It was a large, beautiful item: three feet tall and half as wide, and made from lacquered wood. The front of it was emblazoned with a red lion imposed on a field half white and half green. The beast stood up on his hind legs, brandishing his front paws against the border of the frame.

"You're right, of course. Place the catalyst at the head of the circle there," He gestured toward the position he meant, and she moved to comply. "Once it's set I'll go ahead and start the incantation."

As Jessica set the shield into place and then shuffled wordlessly to the side, Carlo stood at the base of the circle he'd created, his right hand raised. He took a deep breath, then exhaled and did so again, closing his eyes and trying to calm the racing of his heart. If this ritual succeeded, then his path would be set. He would either emerge a victor and have his wish granted, or he would die. This knowledge didn't bother him, as indeed, few things did, but he was nevertheless feeling a sense of anticipation. No need for hesitation anymore. He opened his eyes, and the instant he did he banished all stray thoughts from his mind. He allowed one foot to touch the edge of the circle, and began to cycle all the mana in his body through his magic circuits, causing the glowing of the circle to grow ever more intense.

"I am Carlo Toscano Eniede. My will shall create your body, and your sword shall shape my destiny." There was a tremendous flow of magical energy in the air, so intense that it felt like a brewing storm trapped inside the confines of the warehouse. Jessica could feel wind produced by the magical flow ripple and whip around her body, and watched, transfixed, as the light of Carlo's circle soon outshone even the evening sun itself.

"If you heed the Grail's call, and obey my will and reason, then answer my summoning. I hereby swear that I shall be all that is good in this world. I shall defeat all evil in this world. Seventh heaven clad, and the great words of power spoken, come forth from the circle of binding, guardian of scales!" The back of Carlo's right hand began to burn tremendously as he finished the incantation, a pain so great that only the adrenaline surging through his body prevented him from crying out in response to it. A pattern was beginning to take shape there, burned into his flesh, but before he could make sense of it there was a tremendous sound, like a clap of thunder, and a forceful shockwave erupted from a growing vortex in the center of the circle.

Carlo was knocked backward, landing in a seated position as the forceful wind whipped all the dust in the area up into the air, creating an obscuring fog. He could hear Jessica's scream from somewhere in the building, no doubt a reaction to being blown backward as well, but he couldn't see her between the clouds of dust and the growing light from the center of the vortex. He attempted to call for her, but his throat became agitated from all the dust he'd inhaled, and instead of making any intelligible sound he began to hack and cough. The air had grown calm again, and as the dust settled his eyes were drawn back toward his circle.

The light he had witnessed hadn't faded. It was humanoid in shape, standing amid the dust and debris like an angel descended from heaven. As he watched, the details of the figured began to grow clear, and a feeling of triumph washed over him. He looked up at the one he had summoned, and then down at his injured right hand. An elaborate symbol had been branded into it: a series of curved, sharp lines which created an emblem that slightly resembled an eye. It was the sign he'd been accepted… that his war had begun. His coughing gradually changed its form, becoming a passionate laugh that erupted from his core, echoing throughout the empty building. He had finished all his preparations now… it was time to head west.

 **Dorothy**

 **Central City, Missouri**

 **September 29th, 2030**

 **11:45 AM**

"You lose again, Archer! I thought outlaws played games like this all the time." Cassidy reached toward the center of the table the pair were playing cards on, scooping all the chips that had been gathered there into a pile at her side. Her companion did the same to the cards after she withdrew, straightening them out in his hands before beginning to shuffle them. They were relaxing in her home, playing a friendly game. She hadn't even bothered to change out of her pajamas today- a pair of blue sweat pants and a t-shirt.

"This variation of poker didn't exist in my day, Master. As I said when you proposed we play it, and then repeated when you teased me for losing the first time." He repeated the process of sorting and shuffling the cards a second and third time, before returning them to their box, bringing the stack of cardboard up to his eyes to make sure it was perfectly straight.

"Huh, really?" Cassidy pursed her lips, looking at the older man wide-eyed, as if to imply this was the first time she'd heard his words. "I thought you said that when you were summoned, the grail gave you all the information you would need about the modern world." She had wanted to play further, but presumed his return of the cards to their box to be a silent declaration of boredom, and allowed the idea to fade away. Instead, she reached a hand behind her head and pulled her long red ponytail over her shoulder, stroking the hair thoughtfully, as was her habit when she found herself lost in thought. Her hair was so long that the tip of the tail reached almost to the base of her spine, and was immaculately brushed and cleaned to such an extent that it almost shined.

"It's true that I'm mighty informed about how things work now. You won't see me stopping to gape at cars in the street, and I ain't gonna marvel about all the little people in the TV. Still, it's not like the grail felt the need to tell me everything, and would you fancy that? It turns out this 'texas hold 'em' poker apparently wasn't important enough to come up when I was summoned." Her servant responded sardonically, watching his master with his piercing, steel-blue eyes. He had a shock of black hair which was combed forward so that his bangs fell around his eyes, but he had meticulously sculpted them so that every strand fell around his gaze without impeding his sight. It was a style that seemed wild and unmanageable, but was actually the result of careful and precise planning.

"Well, it's lame, regardless." said Cassidy with a shrug, losing interest in her hair and leaning back in her chair, returning his steely blue gaze with her own warm, brown one. "Gambling is the same thing as life. There's no point in one without the other. People don't really understand the value of what they have until they risk losing it in their rush to get more." She looked at the pile of chips she had accumulated during their game with a wistful smile.

"A simple, but surprisingly eloquent sentiment, coming from you," Conceded her servant. "is that what you're doing here, then? Did you enter the holy grail war just for the sake of gambling?"

"You're goddamn right, I did! I don't think a gamble exists that's bigger than the holy grail war. The winner gains everything, the losers lose everything. It's the epitome of high risk-high return." She puffed her chest out proudly, thumping her fist above the modest swell of her breasts. "I barely have a wish for the thing itself. The act of fighting for it is basically everything I've ever wanted in life."

"You realize this means you're going to be responsible for the deaths of a dozen people, no? I'm not a stranger to the act of murder, innocent or otherwise, but it seems like that's something normal people wouldn't cotton to."

"Well, it's not like I enjoy the thought of killing people, but it doesn't really bother me, either. They're making the same gamble I am, the thrill would be gone if the stakes weren't high. Besides, it's not like any of them would hesitate to kill me." In truth, she was no stranger to risking her life. She brought a fingertip to her temple, tracing a small circle against the skin there, remembering how cold the gun barrel had felt; remembering how her heart had raced as she watched that coin dance in the air.

"Fine, fine. I'll do my part to handle the brunt of the dirty work, regardless. Women and children don't belong on the battlefield."

"Aww! That's as sweet as it is patronizing. Don't expect too much support from me when it comes to other servants, though. Apparently I have mage ancestors, since I was able to channel enough mana to summon you, but I don't know any magic. I guess I could go buy a gun or something, but you're probably a better shot than I am, anyway."

"That would end poorly. Guns wouldn't do anything against a servant. I'd actually prefer you stay hidden rather than help me out, anyway."

"Oh? What's that for, then?" She asked, pointing toward his hip. He was wearing a long, tan duster over a black button-up dress shirt and cotton pants that were held in place by a leather belt with one holster on either side, each housing the bright silver form of a Colt revolver. He followed her point, and upon seeing what she referred to he let out a soft sigh of frustration, but calmed himself. She had jumped into this situation without truly understanding it, after all, and his survival would depend on her learning fast.

"When a servant is summoned by the grail, they fill one of seven roles depending on the weapon they used in their legend. I'm a gunslinger, so I was assigned to the archer class, which stands for all ranged weapon users. As a servant, these weapons may look like my ol' six-shooters, but they're actually a representation of magical power called a 'noble phantasm.' Noble phantasms of like power to a servant, or magic of the highest order, are the only ways a servant can be killed." This was an oversimplification of things, but he hoped it would convey the futility of her attempts to help him all the same. She nodded thoughtfully to this, her hands returning to her ponytail, so he continued.

"Listen, master, if the holy grail war is a game of poker, then you masters are the players sitting at the table, and we servants are cards you're dealt. We're connected- if one of us wins, the other wins. Your mana keeps me anchored to this world. If you die, I die not long after. We have to fill the roles given to us, just like this were a hand of poker. My job is to be a hand stronger than every other card on the table, and your job will be to look for weaknesses in the other players and exploit those weaknesses. If you're not content to stay hidden and let me fight your battles, then focus on findin' a way to take out the enemy masters, if a servant is too powerful, killing the master who supplies 'em with mana would be the best way to get around them. Whatever you do, though, never pick a fight with a servant."

"So, I just stand around and let you fight the other servants, unless the other servants start kicking your ass around, in which case I try to take out their masters? Fine, I can dig that. I prefer to have little control over the outcome, anyway. That's what makes gambling fun!" Her heart started to race. She had a basic idea of what a holy grail war entailed: that seven mages would appeal to the grail's power to summon seven servants, and that they would fight until only one master-servant pair remained alive, but she hadn't really given much thought to the tactics beyond that.

"Besides, the archer class excels at independent action. By default I require less support from my master than any other servant in the war. When the other masters arrive in this city, we'll go our separate ways for a while. You try to find a place to stay safe, and I'll gather information on the enemy servants. If worst comes to worst, and you need my help, just use this."He extended one of his long, bony hands and placed it on top of her right hand, gently touching the brand of tribal lines that had been burned into the back of it.

"The thing that got burned into me when I summoned you?" She asked.

"That 'thing' is a tattoo that represents your command seals. Not only does it identify you as a master in the holy grail war, it represents three orders you can give your servant that the grail will absolutely force them to obey. If you decide you want me to do something and I refuse, you can use on of these orders to force me, but that'd be wasteful. Command seals are best used to help your servant do something that would otherwise be impossible. For instance, if we're separated and you find yourself in danger, announce that you wish to use a command seal to order me to appear before you. I can't teleport, but the holy grail's power can do the teleportin' for me. One of your command seals will be consumed, and I'll be magically pulled away from wherever I am and taken directly to your side."

"I feel like I should be writing all this down, but ah well." Cassidy laughed, at the very least it seemed simple enough. She reached beneath the table, where she kept a two-liter bottle of soda, grabbed the bottle and pulled it up, looking at the design on the back of her hand as she did. It had hurt so badly when it burned itself into her skin that she had nearly lost her concentration during the summoning, but at least it was useful. She poured some soda into a glass, and took a long drag from it, feeling refreshed, though as she went to set the glass back down, Archer glared at her, pointing to a stack of coasters she had on the table next to the box of cards.

"You 'should' have known all of this going in, but it's fine. Don't forget you only have three of those command seals. If you use all three, then the pact that binds us as master and servant will be dissolved, and the holy grail will no longer recognize you as a master in the running to claim it. Moderation, oh wayward gambler."

"I got it, I got it." She yawned, pulling a coaster off the pile and setting it onto the table so that she could rest her cup without getting death glares from her own servant. His sarcastic disposition, and those cold, piercing eyes of his made him seem aloof and uncaring, but it was clear by the way he'd treated her since she summoned him that there was a warm, almost paternal kindness somewhere in his heart. She had assumed he would be much more crass and evil. He was a famous outlaw when he was alive, after all. Not that she minded having a reliable servant if she was going to be risking her life.

As the morning ended, and the afternoon began, Cassidy decided she wanted to just stay in today. If Archer's theory was correct, she had only a matter of days before the other masters headed west, toward their home town. When that happened, her peaceful days would be gone for a little while, but the thrill that would replace them would more than make up for it. She finished off the last of the soda in her cup, and smiled, filled with a sudden confidence. With her unbreakable luck, and with Archer representing her, she could win this thing. She went to replace her empty cup on the coaster, but was surprised to find that Archer now glared at her again. She got ready to protest, but he jerked his finger toward the sink. She frowned at this, rolling her eyes as if to say "okay, _mom,"_ and got up to place her cup into the sink. Perhaps he was a bit too paternal.

 **Glenda the Good Witch**

 **Central City International Airport**

 **September 29th, 2030**

4:10 PM

The population density of the Central City airport was insane, even by the standards of an airport at rush hour. It felt as though every last inch of the halls connecting the luminescent white terminals was filled with people, packed shoulder to shoulder, and pushing in every direction as they scrambled madly to get to their gates. Frustration and stress seemed to radiate from everyone, and the only comprehensible sound was the din of a thousand simultaneous conversations.

Margaret was unaccustomed to crowds. Indeed, prior to her current journey, she had lived as a shut-in: Sequestered in her mansion in the outskirts of Bristol, England, and more than content to allow the rest of humanity to while away its minutes without her. The contrast between that isolation and her current situation was palpable, and she could feel an anxiety attack beginning to swell in her chest as she tried to move forward. She did promise her servant that she would steel herself for the battle ahead, so it wouldn't do to let herself be defeated before the war even began, even if her foe was something as formidable as an airport crowd.

So it was she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trusting her servant- the man who was now walking ahead of her- to guide her toward her vehicle. The slender, wrinkled fingers of her tiny hand was clutched tightly around the ash-gray fabric of the blazer she had picked out for him, (having deciding it would be for the best to have him look like any of the other businessmen a setting like this saw an endless supply of,) and she walked closely behind him, letting him breach the ocean of people before them as though she were a car behind a locomotive.

She was an old woman now. She didn't know when that had happened, but with well over sixty years behind her now, it was a truth she could no longer deny. Her hair was so silver that it shone, though she still grew it long like she had in her youth, and kept it bound in a bun behind her head. Her warm brown eyes were now sunk deep in her skull, and peered out from a face that had developed long, deep wrinkles over the course of a very hard life.

By contrast, her servant was a tall and handsome man who looked no older than his early forties. His broad shoulders filled out the blazer she'd prepared for him, and his height gave him an imposing presence, even from behind, as he stood close to seven feet, which gave him more than a half body length over his comparatively tiny master. He weaved his way through the crowd with an effortless combination of strength and elegance, ever-careful not to leave Margaret behind as they gradually advanced toward the entrance, occasionally taking a look over his shoulder to make sure she was still okay. Dark eyes, short but wild brown hair, and a groomed beard on his chin. He didn't quite look like the hero she remembered reading about as a child, but something about his bearing did confirm for her that he really was a legendary hero, someone whose name had been etched into human history forever.

The sojourn took ten minutes, but the younger man fulfilled his role with aplomb. Soon they had reached the baggage claim area, where he found the suitcase she'd prepared, lugged it over his shoulder effortlessly, then guided her toward the row of glass double doors separating the airport from the world outside. Margaret let herself relax now, taking a deep breath of the chilled, early-autumn air, and allowing her eyes to open all the way. Among the series of cabs and rental cars was a conspicuous black limousine, with the chauffeur- a chubby, unkempt man in an ill-fitting suit standing beside the passenger door- holding a piece of cardboard with the name MARGARET CRESTWOOD scrawled over it.

"Seems we've found the man to draw our chariot, Master." Her servant looked back at her again, chuckling to himself.

"Let's not judge by appearances, Lancer," She chided gently, raising a hand to let the chauffeur know his charge had arrived. He panicked for a moment at this, shuffling toward the other end of the vehicle to open the door for them. Lancer entered first, clasping a hand on the other man's shoulder in a manner he meant to be encouraging, but which may have accidentally done more to be intimidating. He ducked his large body down and slid into the vehicle, looking around at the interior for a moment, as though assessing all was safe, before beckoning for Margaret to follow. She did as she was bade, taking the seat beside her servant as the door was shut behind her. Their driver now awkwardly made his way back to his own position, and before long the cab began to vibrate as the car was drawn away from the parking area.

"Are you feeling well, Master? I can tell the trip was draining for you." Lancer leaned back against the leather upholstery, seeming to enjoy the feel of it. This made sense to Margaret. He may have been informed of how the modern world worked, but this was still his first personal experience with it.

"Oh, don't worry for me. I may look frail, but I'm durable enough to have lived this long." Margaret reassured him, looking out the window at the streets that flew past them. It wasn't that she disliked people, necessarily, she actually didn't mind watching them go about their lives from a distance, separated by glass and steel like this, where she couldn't hurt them.

"True enough. I'll say no more about it then. In that case," He reached for the button embedded into the armrest of his chair, raising the soundproof divider that separated the driver's side of the cab from the passenger's. "Have you decided on your strategy? We won't have long to get settled before the fighting begins."

"I decided to do things as you asked. I purchased a house in a suburban area a few kilometers outside the city. It's on top of a leyline, so it'll make an ideal atelier. Once we arrive, I'll erect the most powerful magical barrier I'm capable of, and that will be where I remain until the end of the war." Lancer's first concern upon being summoned was the frailty of his master, and while she was somewhat cross about being underestimated, it was true nevertheless that she was well past her prime. In terms of magic arts she could rival anyone, but her stamina wore out more and more quickly as the years went on.

"Good to hear! I'll be at a bit of a disadvantage without support from my master, but I'm actually not too bad in a fight. I like to think I'll have a few things to teach the other servants about battle." His voice was soft and dismissive, as if to imply humility, but Margaret couldn't help but feel there was a note of genuine confidence in his words.

"You'll be at no such disadvantage, Lancer. Take a look at this." She reached into her pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper. "I came up with this design on the plane ride. I needed it to be something simple enough to be drawn repeatedly, but distinct enough to not exist in abundance around us. Would you be capable of drawing this, if I asked you?"

She handed the paper to the servant, who took it, his brow raising and the corner of his lip turning downward. He unfolded the scrap to find that all that was there was a single black dot inside a circle, with three lines extending from the top of the circle, and two lines below it, creating the illusion of eyelashes around an eye.

"I mean, I'm no artist, but I think I can manage something like this. Why?"

"My family's signature thaumaturgy is a technique called the 'Roots of Yggdrasil'. Hmm… how to put it simply… Think of my atelier as a great tree, lancer. My family's art allows me to create roots for this tree, pathways I can send my mana through even across great distances, so long as I designate a symbol to represent that root, and as long as I recreate that symbol in all the places I want those roots to spread."

"I lament, master, I wasn't a mage in life. I'm not sure I follow what you're saying." He closed one eye, scratching his head as he spoke.

"That's why I chose this symbol, Lancer. It makes it a bit simpler to understand. See how it looks like an eye? Well think of it like this: these are my eyes. If you draw one on a wall, I'll be able to see as though it really were my eye attached to that wall. The more you draw, the more I can see. However, the benefit is more than just letting me see what happens around you. I can send mana through it as well. If you find yourself in a situation where support magic could help you, I'll be able to cast that magic even in spite of the distance between us."

"Ah! So you can provide long distance support without risking your life on the front lines. Alright, master, I'll stop every few minutes and carve one of these little eyes out, then." He cast his gaze out the window for a moment, smiling. He hadn't expected that his master would have an ability which would allow him to reap all the benefits of keeping her hidden away and having her fighting alongside him combined. This would make the battles ahead much easier on his conscience. He looked back at his master, planning to give a supportive line about how they could win anything, but was surprised to find she was already looking straight at him, her eyes glistening.

"My family has made an art of living our lives while minimizing contact with others. Our presence is like a curse that drains the luck away from all around us, after all. I imagine that, because you answered my summoning, I'll visit misfortune upon you someday, too, Lancer. I'm truly sorry about that." She always spoke with a west-British accent, and tended to enunciate her words carefully so as to betray as little genuine emotion as possible, but he could hear her voice cracking as she said this. He shook his head, reaching his hand out to rest over hers.

"This may shock you, master, but I'm not a stranger to misfortune. I'm here because I want to be. I guess you could say that I have an established habit of not being able to ignore the tears of isolated women. You remind me of a little sister I knew once."

"Thank you, Lancer. Regardless of where this journey takes us, I'll strive to take it alongside you."

"Right back at you." They met each other's gaze, and this time she did her best to try to imitate his reassuring smile. A moment of peace was enjoyed between them, the uncertainty of war still a little ways off to the west, in the direction their vehicle took them toward slowly.

 **Flying Monkey and Wicked Witch**

 **Apartment Building in Low Income District, Central City**

 **September 29, 2030**

 **4:30 PM**

The event responsible for this increased western momentum was something many, perhaps rightly, dismissed as an innocuous but annoying prank. All at once, for about a week in the month of January, 2030, the manifold means by which magi communicate with one another were spammed ceaselessly by a uniform message. It came in the form of parchment attached to the legs of familiars, of coded runes suddenly recreated by devices of divination, in the panicked shouts of men possessed by powerful magics, and in more ordinary capacities as well, delivered via letter to the mailboxes of hundreds of members of mage society. For the time, it had become a subject of nigh-universal disdain among those who endured it: the magi equivalent to a Nigerian Prince e-mail.

As inescapable as the deliveries may have been, though, the message itself was quite simple. Less than a paragraph of text that stated its purpose clearly:

 **To those magi who dare to dream, we of Euphoria have obtained the Holy Grail. Come to the American heartland, for in autumn of 2030, Central City will become a battleground.**

The message itself wasn't as noteworthy as the means by which it was delivered. Across countless decades, equally countless groups had claimed to possess the holy grail. They would draw the gullible to them, only to discover that their counterfeit grails lacked the mana to even properly generate Servants, and the wars they sought to create would fizzle out before they even began. The majority of the mage world dismissed this message as more of the same, and once its onslaught began to die down in February, all but a few had forgotten about it entirely.

Still, more than a few in positions of power were prone to caution, and from that caution was born this meeting. A young man and a young woman, both foreigners in a strange land, had gathered inside a run-down apartment. The young man had been living their for a number of days beforehand, gathering intelligence on what was to come, and when his companion finally came to meet with him, he moved forward to unlock the door and grant her access.

The woman was short, with dark black hair which she kept meticulously cut to precisely her shoulders, framing a thin face and equally dark black eyes which stared out at the world from olive-shaped sockets. She stepped into the living room the instant the door was opened, resting one of her tiny hands wall as she got her bearings with the home. It had clearly been mistreated by whoever had owned it prior to its purchase by the Mage's Association. The carpet, which she assumed must have originally been white or gray at some point in its existence, had long since taken on a blackish stain to most of its length, and the tan-colored wallpaper that framed the living room was covered in grime, giving the walls a distinctly gritty texture she became aware of as soon as her fingertips touched them. She narrowed her eyes at this, her upper lip curling as she crinkled her nose.

"I apologize for the state of my accommodations." Her new companion said evenly. His voice was smooth, although deceptively deep for how young he looked. He seemed to be a man in his early twenties; his sandy brown hair was short but scraggly, with bangs poking out from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt like the legs of a spider, and he kept his eyes hidden behind thick sunglasses. "It wasn't my first choice, but I prefer to travel cheaply, and in my experience no one pays attention to what happens in these parts of big cities."

"It's fine. You do you. Can't say I want to spend a single second more here than I need to, though." She said, speaking clearly in spite of her slight Japanese accent. She reached into the pocket of her red jacket, removing a jagged red crystal. The gem was about the size of her palm, and glowed ominously as she retrieved it, the magic sealed inside it reacting to the mana she generated unconsciously. She looked to her companion, who nodded his consent, and then she slammed the gem against the clearest, cleanest wall available to her.

"Erenerung an das wort!" She shouted as it shattered into dozens of pieces due to the force, with the glow that had originally filled the gem itself now spreading to the wall, using it as a canvas across which an image slowly formed. It started as a vaguely humanoid shadow, gradually clearing into the image of a man's bust, before finally filling in the details of its subject, taking the form of a man. He was a bald, middle-aged man of European descent. He stared forward into space with cold gray eyes, his face lightly wrinkled even in spite of the complete even expression he wore on his lips. He was only visible from the waist up, but it was clear he was wearing a flowing purple robe, sealed by a sash around his waist that was emblazoned with the image of a gold raven.

"Yukiko Takeda and Eric Strenger. This briefing is to be played when you rendezvous with each other in America." He spoke with a voice so deep it could almost be called a growl. The spell was merely a recording of words already captured ahead of time, so Yukiko didn't feel bad about shuddering a little when she heard it, since he couldn't notice and get mad. He was her employer, but everything about the way he carried himself reminded her of an overly strict father figure.

"Upon meeting with one another, your mission to investigate the organization called "Euphoria" and their holy grail invitation begins. Most of the Mage's Association wanted to ignore the call to this 'holy grail war.' We know the location of the true grail, and when it will manifest again, so there was no merit to investigating a mere counterfeit. However, we've confirmed that servants have been summoned; Some are exceptionally powerful. To summon even a low-level servant would require a tremendous source of magical energy, so even if this object which Euphoria has in its possession isn't a true grail, it must be formidable. We of the Association had some unpleasant dealings with these people in the past, so if they've gotten their hands on a weapon capable of manifesting servants and conducting an ersatz grail war, it would be in our interests to relieve them of it.

"Eric Strenger, we've received word that you have succeeded in becoming the master of Assassin." This surprised Yukio, who cast a glance toward her young companion. He shrugged in reply, raising the back of his right hand to show her the command seal tattoo imprinted upon it. She had been under the impression that she would be the only agent infiltrating the war, but there wasn't any reason to be upset at it. One less enemy to worry about.

"Your role will be reconnaissance," continued the recording, "continue to gather information on the locations of enemy masters and servants, and update Yukiko as they change. You are to avoid direct combat with any enemies, be they masters or members of Euphoria, until the second phase of the mission begins."

Eric's face remained placid. Come to think of it, his expression hadn't changed once since the moment Yukiko arrived. She wondered if he was one of those 'emotionless spy' types, and the thought made her sigh. If she was going to have a partner, she would prefer he have a bit of personality.

"Yukiko Takeda," the sound of her name caused her to return her attention to the task at hand. She'd have all the time in the world to lament boring partners after the briefing.

"It would be obvious to any mage worth their crest that this holy grail war is a fraud. Thus, we can safely assume that any magus who proceeded to summon a servant and compete is either low-born or desperate. People like that can't be trusted to maintain and respect the Magi code of secrecy and discretion, so we run the risk of a competitor creating a spectacle that will draw unwanted eyes toward our society. Your task will be twofold. On the surface, you'll go through the motions of competing in the war, but in truth you are to investigate the area. Try to find the organizers of the event, and eliminate them if possible, but your primary task will be to find the device they're using as a holy grail, and steal it. If you're able to return the artifact to the Clocktower without destroying it, your reward will be doubled.

"If you discover a competitor in the war who is making an undue spectacle of themselves, however, you are to give priority to exterminating them. The secrecy of the magi world is of paramount importance. Use your discretion in the field to decide when it's necessary to step in. Regarding your servant, of the seven classes who participate in the war, the strongest in combat are the three knight classes: Saber, Archer, and Lancer. Unfortunately, our scouts report that representatives of all three have already been made manifest, so our advice is to summon a Berserker instead. The Berserker class is unruly, and demands tremendous amounts of mana from its master, but in exchange for these limitations they possess great strength and endurance.

"You now have your assignments. For the sake of security, the two of you are to execute your missions separately, and to interact as little as possible. Yukiko, Eric will give you the address of a safehouse we've purchased, use it as your workshop during the fighting to come. The Einzbern family has agreed to part with two of their dolls to assist you. Both are low class, but alas, few in the association truly grasp the danger posed by Euphoria. Use them to assist you in providing mana to your servant, and if Euphoria's grail requires a physical vessel to manifest, like the true grail, they can be used for that purpose, as well. The dolls await you at your safehouse, alongside the catalyst we've prepared to help you summon a powerful servant. Best of luck to both of you."

The image of the man on the wall flickered for a moment, and then faded away, leaving no trace of anything, save the grime that existed there beforehand, remaining on the wall. As if on cue, Eric extended his hand toward her, producing a slip of paper with a few words scribbled onto it.

"Thank you! You know, there's a flaw in the Association's thinking. They're bribing us with money, but if one of us wins the grail, they can just wish for that money, instead. Would save us some trouble, don't you think?" She winked and stuck out her tongue after saying this. It should have been clear she was joking, but she didn't know if she could trust one of those gloomy types to catch onto sarcasm, regardless how obvious.

"You can do that if you want." Said Eric in his deadpan voice, indeed missing her joke entirely. "All I care about is completing my mission. I have no interest in the holy grail." He traced the outline of the command seal tattoo on his hand, lost in thought.

"What's this, master? Such language! Servants don't obey their masters out of the kindness of their hearts. They, too, have a wish they want to cast upon the grail… and they can't very well do that if their master is so apathetic." A high-pitched, almost shrieking male voice suddenly protested. The hair on the back of Yukiko's neck stood on end. The sudden voice was coming from directly behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. She turned her head, eyes wide with shock. A broad, pale face was directly behind her, teeth flashing in a wide grin which revealed inhuman, fanglike canines. Above the smile was a pair of equally uncanny eyes, which seemed more like a cat's than a man's, with black corneas surrounding silvery irises and diamond-shaped pupils. Her body reacted instinctively, forcing her elbow into the creature's face and launching herself away from him, leaping back until Eric was closer to the it than she was.

"Assassin..." Eric said, his voice carrying a slight hint of reproach, as one might use to scold a pet dog for barking. This was assassin? Yukiko had thought that heroic spirits had to be human to be summoned as servants, and this man, although humanoid, was distinctly alien. He stood just shy of eight feet tall, though the tophat on his head made him look taller still. He was dressed as one might imagine a dapper gentleman in 19th century london to dress: with a red doublet beneath his chin and above a black twin-tailed coat and woolen pants. His face aside, his hair was long, greasy and wiry, stretching all the way down to the calves of his long, gangling legs. His arms were too long, as well, with enormous hands and slender fingers that ended in bony, talon-like tips.

"Of course, my wish is being granted as we speak." Assassin's eyes met Yukiko's, and his smile grew wider. "To stalk the streets, to feel the horror of passersby, and to imbibe myself upon the close proximity of beautiful women! Having one more chance to experience these pleasures is all I could ever wish for in this world!"

Eric raised his arm so that it served as a barrier between his servant and his partner, "Behave however you please Assassin, provided you do nothing to hinder my mission, and follow my orders before all else. Now begone."

"Mmm!" Assassin squealed, his body beginning to fade away. Summoned servants could become intangible on a whim, breaking themselves down into spiritron particles until their bodies were needed again. "And this is why I looove my apathetic master. Farewell, beautiful lady!" He began to cackle, a sound which hung in the air long after he had completely vanished into the ether. The pair stood in place for a moment, staring at the empty space where the servant had been.

"I apologize." Eric said, looking back at Yukiko with the corner of his mouth pulling softly down.

"It's fine. I was more startled than frightened. I didn't know monsters could be summoned as heroic spirits." Yukiko reassured him. It was true that she wasn't 'scared' per se, but the encounter was definitely all the excitement she needed tonight. She looked down at the paper Eric had given her, grimacing as she realized the address written there was on the other side of the city. She stuffed the note in her pocket and started heading toward the door.

"Spring-heeled Jack." Noted Eric, with surprising casualness. "Not a monster, really. More of an urban legend based around a botched homunculus who stalked the streets of London two centuries ago." Normally, masters kept the identities of their servants a carefully guarded secret. If your enemies knew who was defending you, they would know their abilities and weaknesses, so most masters instead addressed their servants by the class into which they were summoned. Then again, Eric did say he didn't care about the war.

"Huh, I guess now I know to keep my guard up. Best to learn that now rather than in front of an enemy later. I'm an optimist. I'm going to leave now, Eric, you take care of yourself." She smiled warmly at him, an expression he reciprocated with his usual stony stare, to the surprise of no one in the room.

"There was one final warning I was asked to give you," He walked to the door, opening it up for his partner as she headed out. "The leader of Euphoria is a man named Pieceman. Try to avoid being noticed by him for as long as possible. It cannot be understated how dangerous of an enemy he is." Yukiko thanked him again, and the pair departed. The war for which they were preparing would begin upon the dawn.


	2. The Players Assemble, Part 2

**Chapter 2:**

 **The Players Assemble (Part 2)**

 **Great and Powerful Oz**

 **Central City, Missouri**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **09:30 AM**

Pieceman was a wisp of a man. His body was so thin and lithe that one would be forgiven for believing that he had no muscle at all on his frame. He was a bit taller than average, but this only served to reinforce his slightness. Slender, long of face, long of nose, and with dark brown hair cut short and parted in the center, he looked enough like a stereotypical nerd even without the large rectangular glasses that shielded his eyes, but if confronted with this observation he'd take no offense. After all, he considered himself quite nerdy, so why not look the part? He stepped into the office, propping his foot up on his desk and raising a cardboard box over his head, as though it were a trophy of war. "Rejoice, my co-workers, for I have brought you all donuts!" The seven other people in the room were stirred from their computer screens by this news, rising to gather around him while exchanging nervous expressions at one another. Their employer was a man none of them had much interaction with, so they were unsure how best to approach his apparent act of kindness.

"T-thanks, boss." The woman closest to him said as she reached for the proffered box, her voice betraying some of her hesitation. The small room that served as their headquarters was arranged like an office space, divided into seven cubicles that were each wreathed around an imposing mahogany desk that, until today, had remained unoccupied.

"Y'know what? Don't call me 'boss'. I don't like feeling like I'm being elevated over others. This is a ship that only floats if all hands are at their stations! I'm more of a source of guidance than a ruler. Call me," He paused, bringing one of his long fingers to the cleft of his chin, and raising his bespectacled gray eyes to the ceiling, as though he were lost in thought, "Call me big bro."

"Big bro?" Parroted the beleaguered younger woman, her eyebrow raising and her lips twisting into a series of curves. All seven of the hired technicians had uniforms consisting of black t-shirts with a cursive 'E' emblazoned on the right breast, with the four men pairing them with matching black denim pants and the three women wearing long black skirts. It created the image of casual uniformity that Pieceman always prided himself in trying to provide.

"Eww, you know what? Scratch that. Sounds inappropriate. I don't want anyone to accuse me of being overly familiar with my subordinates, either. That'd be worse than being seen as an authority figure. Go ahead and stick with 'boss' just, y'know, say it like you don't really believe it, I guess."

"Um… right, er, boss." One of the men in the back chuckled at this, albeit nervously, as though he was only just sure enough Pieceman was joking to express amusement. For his part, Pieceman nodded his assent to the group, proud of his choice of title, and backed away from the box, giving the group a few minutes to line up and take what they wanted while he retired to the padded black office chair that had been prepared for him. After he was certain everyone had had enough time to take a break and adjust, he decided to start business.

"Alright, my precious new family members. For the past week I've been emailing instructions to you that probably didn't make a lot of sense. I didn't want to provide context until we were sure our war was going to proceed as planned, but now that that's no longer in question, I'll be happy to explain our mission and the role you've been playing in it, but before that, let's go around the room and I'd like you to update me on the status of the subject you were assigned."

The order hung unanswered in the air for a moment, as the crew before him exchanged uncomfortable looks, but finally, the first of them mustered his courage and stepped forward. He was a short, heavyset man who looked to be in his early thirties, with a round face made slightly more pointed by his groomed goatee.

"Tin Man arrived in the city four days ago. He checked into the high rise hotel known as 'The Regent', alongside his assistant and the 'Saber'. The three of them engaged in tourist activities around the business district until yesterday. I tracked them purchasing clothing and souvenirs, and gambling at the Regent's casino every night, although I couldn't find out how their fortune fared. As of yesterday morning their behavior changed completely. Saber appeared, in isolation, at a campsight near the eastern entrance to the city. I no longer believe Tin Man is at his hotel, but I wasn't able to find footage of him leaving it."

"I see. Well, I'm glad they're having fun. Don't worry too much about losing track of them. Tin Man is the highest class mage our little game attracted, so he'll likely prove difficult to track. Just keep your eyes on Saber. When the fighting starts, it's unlikely his master will risk straying too far to support him. Good job, Randy! Who's next?"

The smaller man muttered a polite 'thank you', and eagerly stepped back into the crowd. The seven of them, called 'the watchers', had each been assigned a similar task: they were given the code name and the picture corresponding to seven individuals, and each was told to track their assigned target's every move for as long as they remained inside the limits of Central City. This wasn't really as daunting as it sounded. They were employees of Euphoria, the shadow of a legitimate technology company of some significant renown, and each of the seven Watchers had unlimited access to a series of cameras, drones, and microbots that had been covertly installed in the months preceding the grail war project. They had no reliable method for tracking movement inside most buildings, but they could follow the activity of their subjects well enough to be able to reliably predict their general location and activity.

The second watcher to step forward was a mousy young girl who stood just shy of five feet tall. Her pale blue eyes were downcast, and her cheeks were burning red as she scrunched up her lips, clearly uncomfortable to be the center of attention even for a few minutes. Pieceman had selected watchers who matched the general age and gender of the target they were watching; he wanted to dissuade anyone using their open access to spy gear for less-than-savory reasons. He ran a professional operation, after all!

"U-um, Dorothy is still at her apartment in the west district. She's currently, um, asleep, while Archer cleans the premises. Neither of them, err, have taken any special actions in the past few days." Her voice was shaky, and she seemed to forget what she was about to say mid-sentence from time to time. The blush on her cheeks had grown gradually deeper as she spoke, such that by the end of her three-sentence report she almost glowed a cherry red.

"Good for you, Sarah! I put you on the spot, and you delivered in spite of your nerves. There's nothing you can't do. Who's next?" Pieceman tapped the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other, clapping politely like a parent who had just watched a small child's performance. Sarah, for her part, muttered a soft thank you, and the meeting continued. Each of them speaking in turn, although by now Pieceman had already figured out what he wanted to know. The conflict had not yet begun. Once the last of them had spoken, their boss gestured toward their cubicles.

"Alright! Now that you've brought me up to speed, allow me to do the same for you. Why don't you all bring out your chairs, and form a circle around my desk here. This may take a while." He turned around as his crew scampered off to comply. Behind his desk was a large whiteboard, with a number of miscellaneous notes scrawled on it. Pieceman frowned at this, and pulled the cuff of his shirt sleeve over his hand, using it as a makeshift eraser to clear the old text away from the board, and then reaching toward the base of it to grab the felt-tipped marker that went with it. He drew some basic scribbles in place of what had been there before, admitting to himself that his artistic talents left something to be desired, and by the time he finished and turned around he was pleased to find that his seven-man squad had pulled up a series of desk chairs, and looked up at him silently.

"Oh! I didn't hear you guys set up!" He cleared his throat, a light redness coloring his cheeks as he returned the cap to his felt tipped marker. "So, listen up, you guys are going to be part of something special: we're going to help one person have their heart's truest wish granted. Guess I should start with the basics: who here has ever heard of something called a 'Holy Grail War'? Show of hands," As he anticipated, no one raised their hand at this. Only mages would be familiar with the term, and Euphoria prided itself on hiring from the tech sector. Given that the average magus reacted to technology with little more than seething contempt, there wasn't a lot of overlap between mage society and his staff.

"Didn't think so!" He expressed, dropping his fist against his palm and nodding. "It's a very misleading title, anyway. It's really more of a tournament than a war, and while the object it's fought over is called the 'Holy Grail', it's not the true historical object. The short version is this: a long time ago three of the most powerful mage families to have ever existed pooled their resources and magical energy and together created an artifact of tremendous power, which they christened the 'Holy Grail'. This artifact possessed such tremendous amounts of mana that it could warp the very fabric of reality upon a whim, but it also developed a bit of a sense of self. It wasn't about to manifest itself for the unworthy, so after some stuff happened, the 'Holy Grail War' sprang up as a means to obtain it.

"Seven magi, labeled 'Masters', would participate, each selected by the grail itself, which would burn a mark onto their bodies. The seven individuals we've had you observe are those magi. I'll admit upfront that the 'grail' I've crafted is far from the original, but it's an incredible simulation, if I do say so myself, and it's always happy to communicate its will to me! I gave each of the seven masters a code name based on the truest wish of their heart, which my synthetic grail could discern regardless of how they may try to hide it. Needless to say, it's all very clever.

"'but what is a 'Master' the master of', I hear you ask? Well, a 'Servant', of course! Each mage chosen to become a Master must summon a Servant, a familiar who will serve as their weapon during the war. These Servants are warriors pulled from the pages of history and mythology, manifested by the grail into the modern age to fulfill one of seven roles: Saber, Archer, Lancer, Assassin, Caster, Rider, and Berserker. Once each of the seven roles have been filled by Servants summoned by each of the seven Masters, the 'Holy Grail War' officially begins. The seven pairs go to battle with each other, fighting until only one master/servant pair remains alive, and the victor is acknowledged by the grail, which will use its considerable power to make their wish a reality in reward for their valor."

Pieceman took a break here, inhaling sharply. He reached out for the cup of coffee on his desk and sipped it thoughtfully. His words hung heavy in the air, and the audience he'd gathered continued to look up at him, some uncomfortably, some looking perplexed. That was fine. They only needed to grasp the basics.

"Anyway, don't sweat any details you don't understand. Just know that these people you've been following are going to start killing each other starting today! Your jobs will be to monitor their locations, and keep me abreast of all changes as they occur. I didn't obtain an incredible simulation of the Holy Grail so that people could fight for it without entertaining me. Once the war has finished, you're all going to witness history, so think of the fighting itself as something of an opening act. Now, let's get to work."

 **Scarecrow**

 **Central City, Missouri**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **11:00 AM**

"You little fool!" The elderly man shouted at his son. Granted, not only was his son twenty-eight years old, but he also stood six and a half feet tall, towering half a head over the father and making his choice of words a queer one. The anger he felt was such that he couldn't appreciate the nature of his semantic error, though, so he continued, heedless of the small smirk on his son's lips. He stood so close to the young man that not half an inch separated them, and he had to crane his neck upward slightly to have any chance of meeting his gaze. He had narrowed his dark brown eyes, which peaked out from beneath bushy white brows, and his old, weathered lips were bent into a deep frown. "Are you able to comprehend what you've done?"

"I'm a better choice to represent our family in the Holy Grail War. My skills at magecraft are far sharper than yours." Unlike his father, who spoke with a thick Hausa accent, denoting his west African origin, the younger man spoke perfect American English. His voice was deep and rich, enticing the ear of any who heard it, and drawing people to listen even if they may not have a mind to. He put his hands on his father's shoulders in a gesture that could perhaps be interpreted as affectionate, but there was no love in it. He used the strength of his arms to guide his father backwards, creating distance between them. The ease with which he could do this reinforcing the vast difference in physical prowess between the two men.

"Arthur! How dare you treat me like this. You owe everything you are to me! Every meal you've eaten, every dollar you spent, it was only because of me that you could study magic at the Clock Tower. I'm responsible for the skills you're using to justify robbing me! You are nothing but the end result of my hard work and sacrifice, yet you stand here and talk down to me!?" The elder man balled his hands into fists at his sides. Despite his smaller size and somewhat emaciated frame, he carried himself with the confidence of a man who had escaped death many times and won victory in many battles. His short, curled hair had only a trace of black left, with most having become a whitish gray due to the years he'd lived. He parted his lips, gritting his yellowed teeth as the intensity of his frown deepened.

Arthur was calm, for Arthur was a man who was always calm. His frame was only average in build, but the muscles of his arms and legs were clearly defined and gently swelled. Not a strongman, but no weakling. His skin was a dark as coal, and his eyes only a slight bit lighter, ever staring forward with a gaze that burned with calm intelligence.

"It is because of your selfless sacrifice that I'm doing this. Please, Father, allow me to use the skills I've acquired to repay this incredible debt I owe you. The Holy Grail War isn't like the battles you've fought before, you'll be facing magi, not soldiers and not gangsters. Deep down, you know you would die if you were to fight. I'll fight in your stead, and present the grail to you when I emerge victorious."

He said this calmly, but it was all he could do to not roll his eyes. His father was quick to play the martyr, but Arthur had lived with the man all his life. Domevlo Iweala was not the kind of man who would do anything that had no eventual benefit for himself. He valued the lives of those around him in dollar amounts, and viewed them as nothing more than investments to increase his wealth, which he hoarded like a dragon atop a mountain of gold. There had never been a time, even in its smallest hour, when Arthur believed his father loved him. Still, this greed and selfishness of his led to pride that bordered on narcissism, so Arthur knew he could appease him by playing to his ego.

"You expect me to believe that you're doing this for my sake? You'll go through the trouble of killing the other masters, just to give me the prize for your victory?" The old man was right to be suspicious, as it was a bald-faced lie, but it was a lie Arthur had been preparing to tell for years.

"You know I'm not a clever man. I've failed at everything I've ever tried. You let me run the laundromat, and I couldn't keep it profitable," the laundromat was the shell business that Domevlo's syndicate used, appropriately enough, to launder the money from their extralegal activities, "I failed as a soldier, and I failed as a scholar. I've tried to repay you for the kindness that you've shown me, and my own idiocy got in the way. I may not survive the battles ahead, but it's the only chance I'll ever have to prove worthy of you." His lip quivered, and his eyes became bright with barely-restrained tears. Domevlo grunted in annoyance.

"It can't be undone now, I guess. Go, but I have eyes on you always! If you show the slightest intent of betraying me, I'll have you killed myself."

"Thank you, Father!" The tears that had been threatening to fall finally gave way, streaking down his dark cheeks slowly. "I won't let you down!" The tension was dissipated after this, with the elder man convinced of his mental dominance of his son, and after a few more words he departed, muttering curses under his breath.

The pair had been speaking in the upscale hotel room Arthur was staying in for the duration of the war. It was a gaudy, modern place, with hexagonal chairs and tables that curved and narrowed into spirals of varying thickness. Arthur didn't understand the design sense, but the rich invested in strange things as a means to show their wealth.

As soon as he was sure his father was gone, Arthur left the living room, heading into the adjacent kitchen area and pulling a bottle of champagne from the courtesy fridge. Above it was a small cabinet stocked with various dishes, so he pulled down a wine glass and filled it to the brim. The air beside him began to waver for a moment, as though he were looking through the haze of a fire, it vibrated more and more quickly until, less than a second after it began, a humanoid form made itself manifest in its place.

"Good morning, Caster." Said Arthur. Caster's eyes were the first part of her to make themselves visible- almond-shaped, with bright red irises which had lines extending from the pupil to the sclera, creating a motif that resembled a spider's web. Her face came into view next, the caramel-brown skin taking unblemished shape around the eyes. She had high cheek bones, and thick, red lips that were almost always turned up at the corner in a knowing grin. Her hair fell around her, curly and black, extending down along her appearing body, which was short, thin, and concealed inside a black dashiki, patterned with a white spider web motif to match her eyes. The robe-like costume tailored in such a way as to hug close around her bosom, accentuating the curve of her breasts. She was beautiful, Arthur thought, and she wanted to call as much attention to that fact as possible.

"Master, that was so touching! Let us win the grail and make your father proud!" She said, clasping her hands in admiration as her eyes teared up in the same way Arthur's had before, only to return to normal as she closed them and laughed merrily.

"I'm as devoted to him as he is to me. Seeking a relic like the Holy Grail for the sake of wishing for money. A small-minded wish for a small-minded man. He should be thankful I stole his chance to embarrass himself with such nonsense." He raised his right hand to her, showing the command seal tattoo that had been made manifest there: eight curving lines arranged in a circle around a pair of triangles that touched one another along edges which hooked up at the ends, like horns. The catalyst for the Servant who stood before him had originally been gathered by his father, who was certain the grail would select him to be its champion. When the tattoo appeared on his hand, it was all Arthur could do not to rub it in the old man's face until after he had completed the summoning ritual and stole his place in the tournament.

"Is being small-minded the reason he seems so… gullible? He was willing to accept that you did all of this for him pretty quickly."

"As he should. I wasn't certain of what form it would take, but I knew that when the opportunity presented itself I was going to rob him of everything and cast him down into nothingness. For the past ten years I've done everything I could to play the role of the incompetent, but eager to please, son. In his eyes, that scene was just another in a long line of asinine attempts to impress him."

"Oh? For ten years? A span of time that means nothing to me, but you humans are quite short lived. My master's patience is impressive." Caster raised a dainty hand to Arthur's cheek, wiping away the still-drying tears from a few moments prior. "To say nothing of being quite the accomplished actor."

"A boy who lives his life surrounded by people who want to manipulate him for their own gain will grow into a man who manipulates others for his own gain. A few tears are a trifle if they can mislead an enemy." This seemed to please caster, who laughed again, this time deeper and louder.

"Oh, Master! Your father may curse you for what you've done, but you have my blessing. Wisdom is a commodity to be stolen, and there's no greater pleasure than to trick the unworthy. It pleases me that you understand this truth." She was a difficult servant, despite seeming so agreeable. The fact that she appeared in the form of a beautiful woman was proof of that. A heroic spirit who was endlessly deceiving all around her, at times noble, and at times treacherous.

"Enough of insignificant things. Have you found any other servants?" Arthur turned his attention toward the battle that was looming. His servant responded with a nod, pointing a finger upward. He looked to the ceiling, and saw the small black spider perched there.

"Be at peace, my cautious master, for I have eyes everywhere. Saber stands in place at the closed campground in the east, radiating magical energy. Methinks he intends to try to lure another servant into a direct fight, and is awaiting an answer to his call. The Rider duo is near him, staying just far enough away to be able to flee if he turns attention their way. Clearly they don't trust their ability to defeat him."

"A wise move on their part. To try to draw a direct fight must mean he's confident in his combat ability. I'd rather allow the three knight classes to take each other out without my help. Still, if many of our enemies are gathering in one place, we should go as well. It could prove fortunate." Arthur yawned and stretched. His meeting with his father had left him feeling frustrated, and he relished the thought of venting a bit of the negativity.

"Going to take his invitation? I may be a wise servant, but I have nowhere near enough mana stored to hope to overcome an opponent like that."

"Of course not. Just going out to say 'hello'. I've been selected to be the Master of Caster, and we shall wage war as casters should. Continue using your spiders to leech mana from the people in the city, stop just short of killing them, and stockpile the energy until the time is right. Now, let us head out to get the measure of those who would be our enemies." The pair of them nodded to one another, feeling a sort of warmth that comes from meeting a kindred spirit for the first time. Arthur planned to have a quick escape prepared in advance, but there was a combative element to his disposition… a drive to look into the eyes of his opponents and determine their worth for himself. It was the only carelessness he allowed himself to indulge in.

 **Cowardly Lion**

 **Central City- Route 13 Truck Park and Campsite**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **11:15 AM**

At the eastern-most end of the city, where the earliest streets of its suburban area only just begin to fight back against the dense forest that filled most of that region of the state, there was a small side road leading off the highway and down into a secluded patch of woodland. In this place, there was a long rectangle of pavement, roughly two hundred yards across, and surrounded by street lights, benches, and foot paths families could travel to explore the nature of the area, or find the camping sites that had been scattered about for public use.

Normally, this was a place for vacation and rest, where people could escape the hustle and bustle of city life and commune with nature, and where truckers could pull in to get some well-earned sleep in the middle of their long delivery routes. However, heavy rains earlier in the year had caused damage to the road leading into the area, and repairs had been slow coming. With no means of reaching the campsite, it had gone unused for months. There were no trucks, no families, no signs of life- save for the single man who stood stalwartly in place.

He remained motionless in the center of the long, paved parking lot; his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, and a serene expression on his face. A few feet before him, his sword had been driven into the earth, the blade easily cutting through the pavement and seeming no worse for the wear of doing so, and resting against the sword was a shield. Dean couldn't remember what that kind of shield was called, but he recalled it looked exactly like the shields he would see carried by knights in picture books. This one was about half as tall as its wielder, and adorned with a lion.

'Knight' seemed to be the theme the guy was going for, too. His golden hair was long, extending to the small of his back, but had been bound into a ponytail by a band tied at the level of his shoulder blades. His bangs were collected into a series of spikes over his forehead, framing the pointed features of his face well and giving him an appearance that even Dean had to admit was attractive. Most telling of his knighthood, though, was the full plate armor he was wearing. His chest was covered by silver plate, which had been polished into a shine, and the same armor extended over his shoulders and ended in sharp points down either of his arms. His legs were similarly protected, since he was wearing those-shit, what were they called? Knight leg things? Greaves? Yeah, Dean was pretty sure that was it. Regardless, his legs were armored too. Between his thin but imposing frame and the pretty face, he was a dead ringer for a knight in shining armor.

Dean had been observing the guy for a while. Like, almost an hour, even. He felt like it was important to impress how long it had been, because good lord had it been a boring slog. He was camped out atop a wooded hilltop a few hundred yards away, peering at the knight-wannabe with a pair of military-grade binoculars. He was only a teenager, and so thin and wispy that he wouldn't have looked intimidating, even by the standards of other teenage boys. He had adjusted his look to try to be more frightening, as he believed himself to be someone who deserved to be taken seriously. He wanted everyone to see him for the serious threat to their status quo that he was, but even in spite of the snake-bite piercings in his lower lip, his shaved-clean head, and the swastika ear ring in his left ear, people tended to dismiss him as a punk who was trying too hard.

Why did he have to be afraid of such a girly-looking freak? His servant refused to advance, and insisted they just watch things unfold for a while, but to hell with his servant. He gritted his teeth, looking down at the command seal tattoo branded upon the back of his right hand. His plan had been foolproof. He'd never practiced magic or anything, but his family had mage blood in it, and he had a gun and plenty of historical objects that could be used as catalysts. He'd team up with a serious badass and win the Holy Grail itself, maybe he could even use it to start his own empire! The only mystery that remained was who would partner up with him to conquer. Would he get Hitler himself? Goering? Goebbels? Dean spat angrily, just remember how much anticipation he'd had.

"Hey, traitor. Get your ass out here." He growled throatily. The sound of a servant manifesting a physical form could be heard behind him, although Dean couldn't help but notice that it didn't start until a few seconds after he gave the command. Given the personality of his Servant, he was certain it was deliberate, making him wait just to piss him off.

"Still on with that 'traitor' thing, Master?" The gruff voice of a middle-aged man piped up. He didn't sound angry, just amused. "As a gentleman, treachery isn't in my nature."

"History begs to differ." Dean turned to face him. The teen's brown eyes meeting the pale gray gaze of the Servant who would be his representative in the Holy Grail War. The older man's hair was hidden by the black, high-peaked cap he wore, whose bill shaded his eyes in a way that even Dean was forced to admit looked a little bit cool. He was wearing the tan fatigues of the Nazi winter uniform, although the swastikas had been torn off. When Dean had tried to force him to replace them, he was warned that it would take nothing less than one of his command seals to force him to do so. He still wore the uniform though, claiming that 'gentlemen must respect their enemies, and always dress properly for the battlefield.'

"Loyalty is important, but there come times when loyalty to one man would mean betraying something far larger. Did you ask me out here to discuss philosophy?"

"No, I called you out here to tell you to go kill that guy." Dean jerked his thumb toward the knight in the distance. His servant looked over his shoulder to get a better look.

"He still hasn't moved? His discipline is impressive. Leave it to the Saber-class servant to insist on trying to have an honest duel." The man nodded his approval, straightening his cap as he spoke.

"Why don't you give it to him? We've been out here an hour. No one else is gonna show. Either go out and kill him or let's leave." Dean rubbed his hands over the sleeves of his coat as he spoke, suddenly aware of how chilly the morning was now that he was moving again.

"I have a good instinct for this kind of thing. This secluded place will be where our enemies will gather. If I try to fight him before then, the only thing I'll accomplish is to be eliminated from the running before the others even arrive. If not my reputation, trust my experience, Master." He reached out and rested his hand atop his master's head, rubbing it softly. This elicited a hiss from the boy, who brushed it away in disgust.

"Can't you at least try to hit him with a missile or something? You have a friggin' tank! I'm not asking you to go fist fight with the dude."

"The Neubaufahrzeug's turret could reach him, to be sure, but the issue with that tactic is threefold. First, it's improbable that he'll be hit by it while he's on his guard. Second, summoning the tank will consume a tremendous amount of mana, not only will this temporarily immobilize you, it'll reveal our location to any enemies in the area. Third, if I draw his fury to us directly, I can't guarantee I'll be strong enough to fight off his offensive."

"How the hell are you supposed to win the Holy Grail war if you can't beat one servant? Didn't you say you thought it was possible to win after I summoned you?" Dean's lack of knowledge regarding either the conflict he had thrust himself into, or war in general, was painfully evident. For his part, the Servant accepted his curiosity and frustration with good humor, treating him as though he were a child in need of education."

"Be at peace! So long as we're heroic and honorable, we'll always have a chance at victory. Listen, master, I don't know why you wanted to summon a member of the Nazi army to be your champion, but that insistence was to our detriment. The more ancient a heroic spirit's legend is, the more power he's given when he's summoned as a Servant. I can't say who our enemy down there is, precisely, but I'd wager my final Reichsmark that his legend goes back centuries. By contrast, not even a hundred years have passed since my death. The difference in his strength and mine is like that between an adult and a child."

"Then how the f-" Dean began his protest, but his servant cut him off.

"We have to play to what strengths we have, Master. Fortunately, you summoned me to fulfill the role of 'Rider', which is the best case scenario. I'll be able to keep us in motion more effectively than any other Servant in the war, legacy be damned! We shall have to choose our strikes carefully, attack when the enemy least expects it, and retreat before they can counterattack. I confess that such guerrilla tactics ill-suit a gentleman on the battlefield, but waging war against enemies of greater strength is definitely noble. If worst comes to it, I have a single ace up my sleeve that I'll be able to use one time without killing you. We'll have to save that for the eleventh hour."

Apparently satisfied with his speech, Rider crouched down beside his master, peering out at their future foe with curiosity. Dean let him do so, his stomach feeling heavy and knotted. He hadn't known about the strength of a Servant being tied to their age, only that their fame could make them more powerful. Was he screwed? Rider seemed confident enough, but he'd hoped he would be able to directly fight everyone else. He had a goddamn tank! Tanks should beat swords. Nothing about any of this made the sense he thought it had.

"Master!" The sound of his servant's suddenly excited voice awoke him from his internal complaining, and Dean looked over to see what he was on about. The knight, the Saber, had opened his light blue eyes. Someone had finally appeared before him: A tall, muscular man with short brown hair, a matching goatee, and clad in an expensive-looking ash gray suit. Dean couldn't make out much about him from the distance, so he fumbled for his binoculars.

"When the time comes for us to make our move, I'll be materializing Neubaufahrzeug directly beneath you. Be ready to hold on tight." Warned Rider, clearly not the least bit intimidated by the arrival. If he was talking like that, then this guy was probably another servant. If they were lucky they could take out two of them with one strike! With excited, clammy hands, Dean gripped his binoculars, raising them to his eyes. He may still be watching, but at least now something worth the wait was going to happen!


	3. Three Knights and Two Conflicts

**[[AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I don't like breaking up the flow of my stories like this, so I won't do these often, but this is the only method I have to communicate my schedule to readers, so I needed to do this at least once. First off, thank you so much for reading! This is a passion project of mine, but I knew that a light novel featuring mostly original characters probably wouldn't draw many eyes. I'm thankful for your taking the time give it a chance, and I hope my story left a good impression. If you have feedback, feel free to leave me a review, I invite praise and criticism in equal measure.

I completed the outline for my project here, and this is what I've come to: Every chapter of this first book will be no less than 10 and no greater than 15 pages, and I write about a page a day. As a result, you can reasonably expect each new chapter to come out every 7-14 days. If I have it done earlier than that, I may post it early, but I will endeavor to never post it late. **[[/AUTHOR'S NOTE]]**

 **Chapter 3:**

 **Three Knights and Two Conflicts**

 **Saber/Lancer duel begins**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **11:33 AM**

There was no animosity in their shared gaze, to Lancer's surprise. The enemy servant had opened his eyes when Lancer arrived, but otherwise made no movements, save to cock his head to the side and take a long look at his challenger. Lancer beamed at this, raising a hand in greeting. He stepped forward, taking careful stock of his surroundings all the while. Was he the only Servant to sense this guy's energy and come investigate? No, Lancer was fairly sure he could feel another servant in close proximity, probably someone too weak to attack him head on. He would have to keep an eye out for a surprise attack after he dispatched his first enemy.

One hundred feet, ninety feet, eighty feet, despite Lancer's broad grin, and the friendly, carefree gait with which he advanced, he took stock of every detail visible to him, and carefully minded his distance. It was unlikely that the man before him would do something underhanded, but he'd be an idiot to take that certainty on blind faith. Not that he could judge. He was as much a politician as he was a soldier, and could appreciate either honor or pragmatism from his foes. Seventy feet.

"I got here as fast as I could. Been waiting long?" He offered. This man didn't seem the talkative type, but there was little harm in trying. An intense, golden haired warrior who had such faith in his talents that he didn't reach for his weapon, even as his enemy approached. Something about him was nostalgic to Lancer, and he had a chuckle at that. He couldn't let history repeat itself, in that case.

"Patience comes with age, so don't worry." His opponent responded. His voice was strong and deep, but despite his claim of patience Lancer could tell there was a barely-restrained excitement behind his words. Was he the kind of Servant who enjoyed the thrill of battle? Well, not like Lancer couldn't understand that. He was a young man, once, too. "I'm relieved that one among my enemy's number has fortitude enough to accept my invitation. I hope you survive long enough to get my blood pumping."

"Well, I'll do my best, friend," he cast his eyes down at the ground before the other servant. A sword driven into the ground, with a shield resting beside it. "May I assume that you're the Saber-class servant?" Fifty feet away, now. Lancer came to a stop here, pondering his options. If he were to throw his noble phantasm from here, it was possible he could at least shatter the shield before it became an issue later. He frowned a bit, dismissing the idea. He felt like he'd been forced to be cruelly pragmatic as a Servant once before, and didn't like the taste of it. His master was a sweet woman who needed a charming knight.

"Indeed. My lord's request prevents me from properly naming myself, but I'll at least offer you that. In this Holy Grail War, I've been given the designation of Saber. May I ask for a similar courtesy from you?" Saber took a step forward, approaching his weapons. He drew the sword from its earthen scabbard, twirling it up and letting the flat of the bade rest upon his armored shoulder. He raised his shield as well, giving it a quizzical look for a moment, then tossing it off to the side. Self confidence. Lancer had a feeling that he could discern his thoughts from a moment ago, and made a show of tossing his shield aside, as if to say 'with or without this, I'm a match for you.'

 _Master, can you see the battlefield?_ Lancer thought. Before he had approached Saber, he moved in a half-circle around the surrounding forest, carving the eye-like symbol he'd been instructed on earlier into every other tree he came across. If those symbols were her eyes, then he would make sure she had eyes everywhere.

 _Yes, you did perfectly._ _I connected each of the roots you made for me to the primary tree. Fight with all your strength, and know that I'll support you if you need me._ His master's voice echoed within his head. The act of summoning a Servant caused the soul of the Master to be entwined with their familiar. It was a simple matter to communicate wordlessly with one another.

Satisfied with the state of his Master, Lancer returned his attention to the foe before him. The modern suit he had been wearing began to burn away. The blazer seemingly evaporated into the air, replaced by a gold-tasseled, regal crimson cape which shrouded a green tunic tied into place by a leather belt. Baggy white pants above knee-high boots completed the ensemble, but while his outfit covered his body securely, he had no proper armor aside from the thick vambraces which were wrapped around his forearms. He extended his right hand, gripping the flickering air before him, which promptly gave way to the form of his weapon. He gripped the ebony pole of a long spear, the shaft of which extended four feet before it extended into a flat, bronze blade which protruded two feet further. The shape of the blade was curious, as though it had been removed from a sword and simply haphazardously glued to the shaft of a spear.

"I'm Lancer. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm not especially noteworthy, as warriors go, but I hope I don't leave you too bored." He smiled sheepishly, bringing the shaft of his spear beneath his right arm, and angling his body with the blade pointed away from his opponent. Saber held his position for just a moment longer. Their eyes met, and a tension began to build between the two men, as though lightning had stricken between them. Then Saber leaped forward.

He was fast! The heavy armor did nothing to slow him as he took three quick hops toward Lancer, bringing his sword down in an arc that threatened to cut his head in half. Lancer swayed his upper body to the side, just far enough to dodge the blade by a hair, using the heft of his spear to knock the weapon away from his body. The sword slammed into the earth, causing the concrete beneath the men to shatter into fragments in the air, as if a small explosive had detonated at their feet. Lancer sidestepped the debris quickly, planting his feet wide apart to keep himself stable as he countered by pushing his spear forward lightly.

Saber was undaunted by this, allowing the shallow blows to glance off his armor and countering with another series of heavy swings. The two men continued this dance for a time, gradually moving in circles around one another as the flow of battle saw them move back and forth across the parking lot. A gunshot erupted from the woods nearby, but neither Servant paid it any mind, as dangers far away were the least pressing of their issues.

 **Archer/Rider duel begins**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

11:39 AM

When the gunshot erupted, it sounded like a thunderclap exploding directly behind them. Dean hadn't even fully realized what had happened until he turned to investigate, to be greeted by the flattened shape of a bullet less than an inch from his forehead. A chill ran down his spine as he realized it had been an instant away from killing him before being stopped by some unseen barrier, flattening against the empty air before him like a child pressing his nose to a window. The realization brought a scream from his throat, and his legs failed to support his weight, so he tumbled backwards, landing on his rear as Rider leaped in front of him protectively.

"Forgive me, Master. I was so focused on preparing an ambush that I allowed us to be ambushed, instead." The Servant spat, clearly angry with himself. Dean looked beyond Rider, trying to figure out where the bullet had originated from. A few yards away, standing on the other end of the makeshift campsite Dean had established, was a tall, lean man. His side faced the pair, his body angled in such a way as to give anyone who may aim at him the smallest possible target. He had a large, silver revolver in his hand, the metal glistening in the afternoon sun as he held it as shoulder-level, starring down the sights with a single piercing, hawk-like eye.

"That's a seriously annoying skill. I thought I might have been able to bag one enemy for free." The figure said, sounding more bemused than angry. He had turned his gaze toward the place where his flattened bullet continued to hover in the air. A broad smile spread across Rider's lips, at this, and he nodded his head with pride. As if on cue, the suspended projectile suddenly fell to the earth, like gravity had suddenly remembered to apply itself.

"My vehicle is an extension of my soul, mysterious stranger! Even if you take the man out of the tank, for one such as I, who survived by his faith in their power, you can scarcely hope to take the tank out of the man. What you witnessed was a manifestation of this spirit: my Servant skill: Panzer Seele!"

"Good grief. Well, whatever. It seems like our relationship is going to last a little longer than I'd hoped, so lemme go ahead and introduce myself. I'm Archer. Sorry, normally this is the part where I'd say 'give me your money or give me your life', but circumstance bein' what it is, I can't be bought off this time." Archer kept his body turned to an angle, and kept his gun raised, but he began to slowly move to the side, planning his next move. The description his enemy had given him wasn't especially enlightening, but he was at least a clever enough man to theorize based on what he'd seen. Some kind of protective field that extends from the servant's body, like the armor of a tank? If so, was there a limit to its range? Maybe if he drew the Servant far enough away, he could turn and strike the Master? Rider followed his movements as he stepped to the side, his eyes carefully following the sway of the tail-end of the tan duster that covered his form. Archer figured he was probably a wary guy, but that was fair. He did just try to assassinate his Master.

"I'm Rider. I'm sure you're disappointed that your attempt at deception failed, but now we may conduct war as gentlemen." Of course he would say something like that. Archer sighed. This was the kind of person he always had issues with. Rider had raised his arm, moving his weight to the balls of his feet.

"We'll see, I guess." Archer fired two rounds at the servant, they stopped short of him in the same way his first shot had. He fired a third shot, this time intentionally aiming just wide of Rider's cheek. The bullet passed through without incident this time. Was 'Panzer Seele' more narrow than Rider had implied? Or perhaps he was conserving his energy, blocking only the shots that could injure him while letting the off-target ones pass through. His reflexes would have to be sharp to pull a stunt like that.

"Master." Rider declared, looking over his shoulder to the place where Dean remained, cowering. Upon the call returning his attention to himself, Dean tried to struggle back up to his feet, meeting with some success, although his legs shook and trembled like a newborn deer. This was clearly the first time in his life he'd ever been in danger.

"W-what's up?" He said, hoping in vain that he at least sounded like he wasn't terrified.

"This enemy is a sharp one. If I let him control the pace of the battle, he may figure out all my tricks, and then we'll be in trouble. I'm going to bring the fight to him. Make sure you watch closely."

"Yes! Fine! Go kill him! Make him pay for that cowardly back attack earlier!" Archer cocked his head to gaze at the boy, his expression making Dean feel like he was thoroughly unimpressed. He responded to this judgment in the classiest and most subtle way he could think of, extending his middle finger and letting the bird fly at him. Who cares what Archer thought? He'd be dead soon, anyway.

At the very least, he was correct that Archer was thinking about him-the servant musing at how little magical energy he could sense radiating from the boy. If he had to guess, he would be willing to wager that his magical circuits had been so atrophied from lack of use as to be utterly useless, but that did make the Servant all the more impressed by Rider's confidence. What was more, his attempts to be cheeky aside, he had the eyes of one who had never been in a life or death struggle before. Archer had experience as both a soldier and a bandit, and it gave him a pretty good ability to read people on the battlefield.

"Your Master is going to get you killed before this war concludes," Spoke Archer to Rider, his tone dispassionate. He meant no insult, and felt he was simply speaking fact. "My Master is pretty hopeless too, so I can sympathize with what you're going through." Dean reacted to this provocation in the manner all present had come to expect. The boy, now so angry his body could be seen visibly shaking. stomped one of his feet into the dirt and raised a fist toward the Servant, in challenge.

"Laugh while you can, Chuckles," He retorted, not bothered in the least by the fact that, not only was Archer not laughing, he hadn't laughed once in the short time he'd known him, "You can eat the entire BAG of dicks now, you jackass! Rider, what are you waiting for?" These words brought a tinge of regret to Archer's heart: regret that he had compared his master to this imbecile. It was true that she was inexperienced and untrained, but at least she understood the gravity of the situation she was in.

Rider sighed at his Master, wanting to express Sun Tzu's advice on guarding one's temper on the battlefield, but instead he decided to save the lecture for later, and did indeed advance upon his enemy. He hopped forward, distributing his weight evenly from step to step so that he could assume his guard at any instant, and as he moved toward Archer he squared his upper body and raised his fists before his face like a boxer erupting from his corner.

The approach left Archer confused- did he intend to fight with his bare hands? Maybe his Master was so weak that he couldn't even manifest a proper weapon? Well, regardless, this suited his plans perfectly. He held his position, letting Rider undertake the entire task of closing the distance between them. Archer looked beyond his assailant, not quite shifting his gaze away from him, but keeping sight on Dean with the corner of his eye. As he'd hoped, the Master remained behind as the Servant advanced.

Rider threw the first punch: a straight right which Archer allowed to come into contact with his cheek, but rolled along with, twisting his body around so that Rider's attack pushed him past his goal. Archer gripped Rider's shoulder and pushed with strength enough to destabilize his balance, and then pulled a quick one-eighty, leveling his weapon forward and firing three times at Dean. He wasn't sure how far Rider's shield would extend, but he knew it had to be finite, and thus forced his enemy to advance on him so he could create as much distance between the pair of them as possible.

The shots erupted from the barrel of the Colt Navy revolver that served as Archer's noble phantasm, but his heart stopped and his breath caught in his throat as they traveled less than an inch before flattening before the same invisible barrier he'd witnessed before. Instead of protecting the master, Rider had blocked his shot by wrapping the 'Panzer Seele' around Archer? However, Rider was behind where he now stood. If the barrier was on this side, then nothing was protecting the servant! He just needed to turn quick-

Intense pain ran through torso as the sound of a violent impact vibrated from just above Archer's right hip. A Servant's body wasn't a perfect analogue of a human body, but Archer could tell he'd been hit by something hard around the place where his liver would have been. His ribs cracked audibly, and his breath was forced from his lungs, sending him reeling in agony as his body fell against the invisible barrier before him and he sank onto his knees, casting his eyes behind him. That wasn't a fist that had hit him. What in the hell did Rider do?

"I don't know what idiocy possessed you, that you would do a silly thing like turn your back on your enemy." Rider chastised his wounded enemy, slowly walking around him until he once more stood between Archer and his Master. "I'm thankful though. If I didn't take away your mobility with one good strike, you could have maintained your distance and turned this into a ranged battle. As you can see, it's safe to assume my projectiles would be a bit more draining for me than your bullets are for you."

Rider gestured beneath his right arm at this last sentence, and at once Archer realized what had happened. Hovering directly beneath Rider's arm was a tube of metal more than twice as thick as the arm that guided it. It extended from behind his back, where it seemed to just appear out of thin air, and was connected to his arm by some unseen force: it was the turret of a tank! Archer heaved, his breathing still uneven as he tried desperately to catch his breath. Rider had indeed taken away his mobility. His legs felt boneless as he tried to return to his feet, and it was all he could do to stand again without bowling over. Rider had apparently dissipated the barrier that had blocked his shots earlier, allowing him to feebly attempt to step backward.

"You won't get away!" Rider shouted, lunging forward. The turret of the tank followed the movements of his arm as though it were just an extension of the limb, and he wielded it like a tonfa, attempting to slam it into Archer's body with every punch he threw. Archer had limited ability to move his legs, so all he could do was take slow, dragging steps backward, swaying his upper body and using his revolver as a makeshift shield to prevent the hard turret from landing another clean blow on his body. Even this much defense could only do so much against the onslaught of heavy strikes, however, and he felt the impact of every parried blow ripple through his form and agitate the swollen wound on his right side. He had to reclaim the momentum of the fight soon, or it was only a matter of time before Rider landed a critical blow against him.

He thought he might have had his chance when a swing of the turret went wide. He put his hand against it, hoping to pin it in place for a moment as he raised his gun to take a shot between Rider's eyes. Rider, instead of trying to withdraw the arm Archer had pinned, ducked down and used the momentum to slam his body into his wounded foe, using all of his body weight to send him flying backward. Archer roared in frustration as he rolled backward, a roar that became a gasp of pain as his back slammed into a tree.

He'd been so preoccupied with trying to avoid Rider's attacks he had stopped paying attention to his surroundings, and in that time he'd been pushed away from the camp sight and back into the woods. A violent cough overtook Archer, and as he doubled over to release it, he could feel the cough pulling the coppery taste of blood into his mouth. He cursed under his breath, nursing his wounded side with one hand as he gripped his revolver with the other. Only one move was left to him, now.

"You mentioned that my master would be the death of me, Archer." Archer frowned deeply, raising his eyes from the ground to see Rider standing a few yards away from him, back where Archer had been before being rammed backwards. Though he seemed sure victory was on the horizon, Rider's expression was one of pity; he looked at the crumpled form of his foe with narrowed eyes and a soft frown on his lips. "Maybe he will be. He's a child with thoughts and emotions that only one who has never experienced the battlefield could possibly possess. Still, in this case, your fixation on his weakness was my good fortune."

Rider raised his hand, and with it brought the turret beneath his arm to the level of Archer's body. The rifled darkness of the cylinder began to glow with magical energy, no doubt charging a powerful attack. Ah yes, that was right. His words before implied that he could fire artillery like this. Archer slid his arm across his mouth, wiping the fresh blood onto his sleeve. If he could do that, why didn't he just fire it at him when he had him trapped earlier? Y'could have ended the fight right then and there.

Archer was tempted to ask him about it, but decided against it, and instead spat angrily. 'It's dishonorable to kill an enemy by shooting him in the back', that sounded like the kind of thing this guy would say. Christ he hated that type of person. Hearing him say something like that would definitely piss Archer off. He was having a hard enough resisting the urge to vomit as it was!

A second passed as the glowing light inside the tank's barrel grew more radiant and large. Rider shook his head, his somber expression remaining fixed on his face, and his eyes locked on Archer's. Archer remained anchored in place, apparently out of options. His master hadn't accompanied him to the forest this morning, upon his request. Not that he regretted that decision. She probably didn't know any healing spells, and probably couldn't even fight off Rider's brat.

"Farewell, my gallant foe! Neubaufahrzeug, artillerie sperrfuer!" At his shout there was a cacophony so thunderous that it made every bullet Archer had fired seem mute in comparison. An explosion of such intensity that it seemed less like a clap of thunder and more like the angered shout of God himself. The light from the turret fired forward, and Archer's vision was blinded by an all-absorbing white. Despite this, he was unperturbed, and calmly raised his revolver against the incoming attack.

"Sorry, Frankie, I'm going to need to ask for your help." He smirked, finally allowing the absolute confidence he felt to show on his face. In the instant before Rider's attack made contact with his body, Archer spoke.

 **Lancer/Saber duel continues**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **12:01 PM**

Almost half an hour had passed since the two had started fighting, but little had been accomplished despite the expenditure. Lancer was an experienced general, and someone who had a talent for reading people's intentions, but everything about Saber's fighting style perplexed him. They continued to dance around the parking lot, moving in a great circle, with Saber controlling the pace of the action, and never giving Lancer a moment to rest between assaults with heavy swings. If the single-handed longsword he brandished had been made of steel, instead of magical energy, it would have been split in twain long ago.

Lancer spared a glance at the area they'd been fighting in. What had an hour ago been smooth, uninterrupted pavement was now lined with deep gashes. Pavement and rock had been slashed cleanly, sent flying from its point of origin to far-flung areas and accumulating into piles around them with each intense blow Saber attempted to land. They reached the edge of the parking lot, Lancer catching sight of a wooden bench behind him and side-stepping it just in time to avoid losing his footing. Saber leaped forward fearlessly once again, and with no mind to collateral damage swung, missing Lancer, but smashing the bench into splinters.

It didn't make any sense. Saber's opponent was lightly armed, and had the advantage of range. Every swing of Saber's sword was full of power, no doubt, but was also telegraphed by the amount of his body he put behind each swing. Against an opponent with any amount of battlefield experience, such heavy blows could never hope to hit anything. Lancer circled back toward the center of the lot. Saber adjusted his direction, crouching low as he released a horizontal strike so intense the wind howled around it as it cut through the air. Lancer swayed away from it, using thrusts from his spear to slow Saber's advance again.

He wasn't a fool, and he wasn't inexperienced either. Every time he would overextend his body, or telegraph a powerful blow, if Lancer made any attempt to capitalize on the opening and nail him with a decisive counter, he would bring his limbs back close to his body and repel it with considerable speed and dexterity. The best Lancer had managed were a few trivial cuts: one across his cheek, and two which had severed the mail of his right gauntlet, but found no purchase in his flesh.

"You have an interesting technique. Your movements are wild and beastly, so I thought you were the kind who relies on his instincts, but there's an unmistakable, formal polish to your defense." Lancer said. Meaning the compliment, but mostly seeing if he couldn't break his foe's concentration or slow his assault.

"Talk in the middle of battle and you'll bite off your tongue!" Saber responded, lunging forward with a thrust of his sword. Lancer parried with the shaft of his spear, the length of the steel grinding along the lacquered wood until the two men's faces nearly touched, at which point Lancer kicked his assailant back with the flat of his boot. The two men paused for a moment, and it seemed Saber was willing to accept his moment's parley after all, as he ceased his assault and turned his thin lips into a smile.

"For your words, and for your existence, you have my thanks, warrior of the lance. In all my battles and all my wars, never has a man stood before me who could withstand my assault for so long. My fondest wish when I heeded the call of my Master was that it would lead to an encounter with a man such as you."

Lancer flipped his spear upward, pushing the bottom of it into the ground and resting his weight upon it to give himself a moment's rest. Saber, too, took the moment to catch his breath, to Lancer's surprise. He had assumed the battle up to this point had been waged with the intent of tiring him out, so he didn't figure there was any way in Hades his opponent would consent to slow down.

"You and your sweet words! If I were as great as all that, then perhaps when I lived I would have succeeded in protecting any of the precious things I lost." The words were heavy, but his tone was not. He had raised a hand, gesturing with his fingers as though he were fanning away the unjust praise. Saber crossed his arms, as if to emphasize his unwillingness to concede the point.

"No, my original plan was to court you into committing yourself to a counter against my mighty blows. I would lure you in by overextending, and strike you the moment your guard was lowered. You availed me of no such opportunity, however. You must be very old and experienced, perhaps as I am."

"Well, I won't fight you on the fact that I'm an old man, that's for sure." Lancer returned Saber's smile at this, laughing politely. When the Holy Grail summoned a heroic spirit, they usually assumed the form they held at the point when they were their strongest. For Lancer, who had died in his prime, his appearance wasn't far removed from how he looked at the end of his life, but Saber had the form of a man who couldn't possibly be any older than his thirties, which made it strange to hear him speak as though he were an old man.

"Such modesty!" Saber jabbed his thumb up toward his face, calling attention to the line which Lancer's spear had carved into his cheek. A small trail of blood flowed down its length. "You committed yourself to making small counters to my strikes, inflicting minimal amounts of damage that would gradually accumulate, until opportunity presented itself to slay me."

"Maybe. Seems equally likely I'll eventually slip up on defense. Those attacks of yours were heavy. If a single one hit me, I'd be cleaved in half." Saber's assessment of his strategy wasn't incorrect, although it vexed him further, since it proved that Saber knew his tactics were flawed, but continued with them, anyway. Lancer sighed. "I had hoped to learn something about your identity from our battle, but your style, weapon, and armor did nothing to give me any clues."

"It is indeed unfortunate that we cannot name ourselves before dueling, as honor would normally dictate. When I strike the mortal blow upon you, I will offer my name over your grave."

"That's polite of you, but I don't know for sure if I'll hear you then." That confidence again. Lancer found it endearing and nostalgic, and it wasn't like he could fault him. He'd been in control of their fight, although Lancer had decided on a solution to their impasse.

"This is true. I always fought for the Christian God, but the fate which awaited me after my death was something not akin to Heaven in the slightest." Saber raised two fingers to his chin, his eyes moving upward in consideration. "I shall accommodate you in this manner, instead: Master has forbade me from giving you my name, but short of this, you may ask me two questions and be assured that I will answer true. This will be my offering to the one who has entertained me so."

Lancer's eyes widened at this. Knowledge of a Servant's true identity was sacred in the Holy Grail War. To know who the Servant you faced was meant knowing their skills, their powers, and their weaknesses. Even if he wasn't planning to give his name, to offer any information at all showed that his confidence extended further than Lancer had originally thought.

"Are you serious? I respect honor as much as the next guy, but that's one favor I definitely won't be willing to repay."

"Nor should you. Warriors who lack skill with their weapons wield information and circumstance in their place. My weapons alone are match enough for all who would appear before me, so I have no need of subterfuge." Lancer yawned, stretching his neck. There was an implicit insult in Saber's words, but Lancer wasn't an easily offended man.

"Guess I can't argue with you there. Are you one of the knights of the round table?" Lancer asked his first question. Upon manifesting him into the world, the Holy Grail had given him an ocean of information to swim through in preparation for life in the modern world. Historical knowledge was among this, although obviously the entire scope of human history was too much to be conveyed in its totality. Still, he knew enough to feel like he had a shot at guessing his assailant's true identity. His weapon and armor were distinct to medieval Europe, and could any warrior of that era claim to be as well known as King Arthur and his knights? Saber's lips turned upward into an even deeper smile, as though he found the question flattering.

"Ah! Like many of my day, and many of days to come, countless were the afternoons I would spend at my Mother's feet, arrested by the tales of the king of knights and his court. Alas, however, while I served many kings in my time, centuries separated me from the honor of counting myself among his vassals." He closed his eyes for a moment, as though lost in a memory. Lancer could tell he was speaking truthfully. Someone with as much confidence in their ability as he did had no reason to lie. Had his Master not specifically forbade him, he likely would have given his name upon request to any who asked it.

Lancer sighed, pondering his next move carefully. He'd stricken out with his first guess, but he had some information. Centuries after the legend of Camelot, but clearly before the age when firearms made heavy armor obsolete. That was close to a thousand years of history to cover. If he made another random guess he could narrow it down further, but the odds of success weren't great. A second passed, and then another, but finally he raised his voice again.

"If you obtain the Holy Grail, what wish do you intend to ask of it?" This was the second track he could think to use. Most people would have a deeply personal reason to want something like the Holy Grail, and even if he answered vaguely it may serve to give Lancer a few hints about his legend.

The smile that had grown wide upon Saber's lips vanished, and his eyes narrowed. He made eye contact with Lancer, but with an unfocused gaze, as though he were looking through him. It seemed unlikely that the question had offended him, but thinking about it was nonetheless unpleasant to him.

"Warrior of the lance, I lead a blessed life by any account. I died an old man, surrounded by loving family, and lived my life ever faithful to my honor and my king, but I was unsatisfied. Deeply unsatisfied. On no field, in no tournament, with no weapon, did I ever taste defeat. I threw myself onto the battlefield, eager to find one capable of testing me, but no such man existed. I was crestfallen, convinced that I had reached the apex of what a warrior was capable of becoming.

"However, everything changed on the day that I died. When my soul was recorded into the Throne of Heroes, the database of heroic spirits used by the Holy Grail, I became aware of the breadth of world history, and the might of warriors representing lands I'd scarce known existed! I'd long wished to do battle with the like of Arthur, Lancelot, or Gawain, but now I knew of the existence of others! The chance to do battle with ancient heroes like Hercules or Odysseus, or to battle with heroes of far-east lands whose reputations rival my own: Lu Bu, Miyamoto Musashi, Uesugi Kenshin. When I've presented the Holy Grail to my master, I'll take as my reward the right to contest with each of them until I'm satisfied."

"You really like fighting, huh?" Lancer whistled appreciatively. Participating in the Holy Grail War was already giving him a head start on his wish, then. It paid to have simple indulgences. To his surprise, though, Saber shook his head.

"I have no love of battle, war, or killing. You misunderstand me. A knight strives for perfection in his chosen path. I devoted my life to being the greatest single-combatant who ever lived. I simply wish to prove my superiority against the worthiest opponents history has to avail myself of." Ah, so it really did come down to confidence. Was there any servant in existence who could rival this guy's ego? Still, there was something about the purity of his focus that Lancer found endearing. The two rested a moment longer, sharing a nod of respect, and Saber popped his back with a stretch. He walked over to the boundary of the pavement, staring thoughtfully at one of the tall, black streetlights that wreathed the area, shining no light in the afternoon sun.

"Have you my measure, now? Let us resume our contest, then." He gripped his sword tightly in his hand, and with a series of slashes so fast his arm seemed to blur into a whip, he slashed the streetlight into four or five segments of metal in the blink of an eye. The pieces lands around him with an audible clang, and he turned to face Lancer again. Once of the fragments of the street light landed between he and his opponent. He simply kicked it up into the air, so high into the sky that it nearly became invisible. "I warn you, I will strike you dead at the end of our next exchange."

 _That's my line._ Thought Lancer with a rye grimace. He could hear his master's voice in his head, chastising him: _Don't get cocky, Lancer. This one will be the hardest fight we have ahead of us._ He acknowledged her concern, and didn't like taking unnecessary risks, but if one of them didn't make a big move to end the stalemate, he'd eventually slip up and be cleaved in half by those powerful swings of Saber's.

He had formulated his strategy for how to handle Saber's fighting style just before they'd taken their break. Lancer's noble phantasm was designed to be thrown, although he had been using it as a common spear up until now, in an effort to draw attention away from his plans. Saber would certainly charge forward with another heavy swing. He would parry the blow directly this time, and allow the force of Saber's blow to knock him backward – into the ideal range to use the ultimate attack of his noble phantasm. In the instant Saber regained his balance after the swing, Lancer would throw his spear through his chest.

There was some risk involved with this plan. Using the true power of one's noble phantasm was only possible if they declared its name prior to the attack, so if Saber survived the attempt, he would have a huge clue as to Lancer's true identity. There was also the risk of his armor resisting the assault. Since Lancer would be throwing his weapon, if the attack failed to incapacitate Saber, he would be at his mercy afterward.

This was highly unlikely, though. Lancer gripped his spear tightly, taking a defensive stance to await Saber's charge. The skills and powers of a Servant were tied directly to the legend that surrounded them, and Lancer's spear, Durandal, was recorded in history for penetrating six of the seven layers of Rho Aias, the mighty shield of Ajax. This legend was made manifest when the weapon was summoned as a noble phantasm, giving it the ability to penetrate all but the strongest of defenses with ease.

No more time for rumination. Saber charged forward, faster than any step forward before. His sword was raised over his head, and he brought it down in a tremendous arc. Lancer brought his spear up to meet it, and their blades met in the air. He carefully guided his swing down along the shaft of his spear, before raising the end of it to fully absorb the air. The pressure was tremendous, even with both his hands on his spear, it was all he could manage to slow the descent of Saber's right arm. He grunted as the two tested their wills against each other, but Lancer's weapon held strong, and the instant the center of gravity was where he wanted it, he allowed the force of Saber's blow to launch him backward.

Lancer leaped back with the speed of a bullet, hopping once as he hoisted his spear in one hand. When he touched the ground the second time he planted his feet firmly, the blade of his spear beginning to glow as he reared backward.

"Duran-!" It was in this instant, a mere fraction of a second before he released his attack, that something occurred which should not have been possible. A black blur descended from the sky with blinding speed, spiraling down on top of Saber, who caught it blindly with his left hand, as though it were just what he'd been waiting for: it was the fragment of the street light he'd kicked up earlier!? Just as Lancer planted his feet to release his own attack, Saber threw the shard of metal. Lancer had paid no attention to it when Saber had kicked it upward. Only a noble phantasm could injure a servant, so the only function a scrap of debris could serve was to distract him from the true attack.

That was how it should have been, and yet, as the jagged tip of of the scrap iron touched the cured leather of his tunic, it tore through his chest with no difficulty. Pain, the like of which he had experienced only one time before, radiated through his body as the fragment of pole pushed clean through him. He could only look at it in shock, opening his mouth, as though to ask it what it was doing, but only a breathless gasp escaped his throat. His balance failed him, and he collapsed onto his back. He could hear his master screaming his name inside his head, worry and sorrow chocking her voice.

His master, who had suffered unjustly her entire life, and whose hopes he'd undertaken when he answered her summons.

 _ **Forgive me**_


	4. Declaration of War

**Chapter 4:**

 **Declaration of War**

 **Tin Man**

" **The Regent" Hotel: Courtesy Dining Room**

 **September 21st, 2030**

 **06:15 AM**

The day before the fighting had formally begun, Carlo, alongside his lovely assistant Jessica, sat on one side of one of the large circular oaken tables that were spaced about inside the room, on either side of the great bar of breakfast foods the hotel staff had arranged for the patrons. He had stacked his plate high, with four pancakes set atop one another, bathed in syrup that ran along the length, inadvertently tainting the slabs of ham and scrambled eggs he had also crammed beside them. He dug into the food with gusto, cutting through the cakes with his knife until he had divided the entire offering into a series of smaller squares, and then spearing them onto his fork to then cram into his mouth.

Across from the pair sat their Servant, Saber. He was still dressed in the pajamas Carlo had given him: A white cotton t-shirt atop plaid flannel pants and gray slippers. It wasn't a getup that suited one of nobility, but a time had existed when Saber was a commoner, as well, and he wasn't about to complain about a gift. His long golden hair was unbound, and fell so luxuriously behind him that he might be mistaken for a woman at first glance. While his Master may have been enjoying the breakfast experience, the same couldn't quite be said for him- he poked at the food he'd been offered with his fork, staring into the distance wistfully.

"What's wrong, Saber?" Jessica asked. Unlike Carlo, she was far from a 'morning' person, and her stomach couldn't handle more than a cup of tea so early in the morning, which she held in both hands, savoring the aroma between sips.

"Ah, my apologies, Lady Jessica." A touch of red colored Saber's face. He seemed surprised that someone noticed his very obvious melancholy. "Master's words from yesterday still weigh heavy on me."

"Hm?" Carlo offered a confused grunt, as this was the most polite inquiry that could be made while his mouth was full. He swallowed the last of his pancake and followed up with, "I said a lot of stuff yesterday. I don't recall any of it being particularly depressing." He reached out to pat his Servant's hand, casting him a gaze intended to look sympathetic, although there was no real emotion behind his soft blue eyes.

"Master, tell me true: what caliber of enemy can I expect to meet during this Holy Grail War?" Saber asked, meeting his gaze firmly. He respected this man, and acknowledged him as his lord during the battles to come, but he was still a knight.

"Oh, that's what has you down!" The previous night he had made mention of the possibility of the rival masters being lowborn, although it was a passing comment he had used to try to get out of planning strategy when Jessica insisted they do so. He hadn't realized that that comment would weigh on his Servant so, but his inability to empathize with people was far from a new dilemma, and now that he knew, he could try to resolve the issue:

"I feel safe in saying it's likely I'm the highest-class mage who will participate in this war." Clarified Carlo, "I'm not singing my own praises in saying this, mind. My mother did much to increase the fame and power of our family's crest, but we're still very much in the middle of the magus society. However, it is commonly held that the invitation to this Holy Grail War is a hoax. The families at the top of the mage world are far too busy trying to undercut one another and hoard their wealth and secrets, they don't have the time or resources to expend on something that's unlikely to be true."

He paused here to take another bite of his meal, an action that was greeted by Jessica grinding the heel of her foot into his, a means of indicating to him that he was being inconsiderate. He sighed, letting his fork rest beside his plate, and continued his explanation.

"I think the people who will be drawn to this battle are a more desperate sort. The kinds of Masters who would be pulled in at the last minute to fill out any unclaimed numbers in a true grail war. Either lowborn mage families, or normal humans with just enough latent magical potential to be able to manifest a servant. By extension, the Servants they will be capable of summoning will probably be low-quality, as well. 'B' and 'C' ranked heroic spirits with only contemporary legacies. We probably won't have to try very hard to be the ones who claim the cup."

Saber cast his eyes downward, his Master's words clearly confirming some festering dread inside his heart. He sighed deeply, deciding on something with himself, and then spoke.

"Master, I have a request. I agreed to obey your orders, and you are my lord until such time as we claim the Holy Grail together, but for just one day, tomorrow, I ask that you allow me to act on my own initiative."

"Oh? What is it you want to do?"

"Your words have soured my excitement for the battles to come. If my foes in this war are to be powerless, and the battles easy, then such is God's providence, but I wish to assess the truth of this with my own two eyes. I will extend an open challenge to all enemy Servants to engage with me in one-on-one battle. If any among their number can give me a satisfying battle, it will be the one who would accept such an invitation. I understand that doing this compromises strategy, but I beg you place your faith in my strength. Upon my honor as a knight, if you grant me this indulgence, then for the remainder of the war I will obey any order you would give me, without hesitation or complaint."

Saber had been calm and distant the entire time Carlo and Jessica had known him, always speaking with confident dispassion, as though his emotions were ever divorced from what went on around him. By contrast, he made this plea with a trembling voice, his deep blue eyes meeting his Master's with a firm stare. The group was silent for a second, considering their options.

"Well, I'm against it." Jessica was the first to break the silence, replacing her teacup onto its tray and adjusting her glasses. "I'm sorry, Saber, if you were willing to wait a few days for us to prepare an advantageous battlefield and gather information on the enemy Servants, then maybe, but tomorrow is too sudden. We would leave too much to chance. What if an enemy has a skill that nullifies your advantages in a straight fight? What if a group of them bands together to attack you at once? The Saber-class servant has a reputation for being the strongest, so plenty of Masters would be willing to band together to have you removed from the board as early as possible!"

"If my enemies rely upon trickery to gain an advantage, then I will overcome them. If my enemies rely on numbers to gain an advantage, then I will overcome them. I am the epitome of a warrior. All attempts by lesser foes to usurp my power will end for naught." Replied Saber, simply. He didn't hesitate for a moment, or even ponder her concern. His confidence was that of a man who had never in his life known defeat or failure. Carlo dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin beside his silverware, listening intently to the discussion.

"You know I'll hold you to that 'no complaining' thing, right? If I do this favor for you, I expect you to be gung-ho about doing my bidding, even if I order you to go around punching babies or stabbing puppies." He finally spoke. Saber nodded firmly in response.

"Use me as you will, I shall be your sword." The Servant's reassurance came as no surprise to Carlo, but it was good that they could come to an understanding. Servants were familiars summoned by Masters, but they were under no particular obligation to do as they were ordered, and a deal like this would save him from needing to waste command seals getting his way if they had a disagreement later on.

"Your concern is valid too, Jessica. The second condition for my agreeing to your request is that you'll have to survive in battle without us. We'll be preparing the next step of our plan while you draw eyes toward yourself. Should we find ourselves in danger, we can always summon you using a seal." Jessica made a sound, as though she were preparing to speak, but decided against it at the last minute, so the air passed harshly from her throat. Carlo knew she took his safety very seriously, since he was the one who possessed his mother's magical crest, but she clearly didn't want to argue if she was the only one to disagree.

"Upon my honor, Master. I will return to you unharmed." Saber was trying his best to sound calm and to resist the smile that wanted to form on his lips, but only partially succeeded in either endeavor, his excitement beginning to crest. Surely there was at least one enemy of the six he would face that was brave and strong enough to give him an honest battle. The next day would probably be the only enjoyable instant for him in the entire Holy Grail War, so he would be sure to savor every moment of it.

 **Lancer/Saber duel continues**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **12:14 PM**

Lancer gripped the metal pole which had impaled his chest with one hand, ripping it free from his flesh and tossing it to the side with a grunt of pain. As a result of its removal, the wound began to bleed freely, with the liquid pooling beneath his back as he continue to lay where he fell, using all his willpower to resist the urge to lose consciousness. He cast his gaze down toward the wound, trying to come to terms with how badly he'd been hurt.

It had been a jagged entry, with the metal pipe entering his body at an angle and tearing through his chest, slightly right from center. It had traveled straight through his body, with the tip of it poking out through his back, such that when he fell backward his falling weight jerked the invading object upward, causing the cut to grow wider. The result was a tremendous gash, nearly eight inches wide from his chest to just below his right shoulder. If he hadn't been laying on the ground, Lancer was sure you would be able to see sunlight through the wound.

A few moments had passed, with his foe making no effort to deliver the final blow. Lancer moved his eyes from his own wounded chest to the place where his foe still stood, making no move. Saber had once again crossed his arms, standing without concern of his guard as he stared down at his wounded foe. Lancer tried to speak to him, but the damage to his lungs was too great for the task, and instead he could only make a gurgling sound as blood ran down his lips.

"'Eternal Arms Mastery,'" Saber said aloud, answering the question that Lancer was incapable of articulating. "In life, I defeated all who opposed me with every weapon of war available to me. The sword, the spear, the bow, the mace, I mastered all and surpassed all my contemporaries. To acknowledge this part of my legend, the Holy Grail gave me an 'A' rank in the skill known as 'Eternal Arms Master'- Any item I can hold in my hands can become my noble phantasm. Were I so inclined, I could end a Servant's life with a humble stick."

Lancer tried to chuckle at this, but had about as much success as his earlier attempt at speech, so instead he stopped straining his neck to stare forward, and let his head rest against the concrete. By all rights, that should have been a decisive blow. He had dropped his guard completely in that instant, and hadn't even considered the possibility that Saber could use a random scrap of metal as a lethal weapon. Yet somehow, his age and experience had saved him. This Saber may be some undefeated super knight, but Lancer was no stranger to the battlefield, either. In the instant when Saber's attack was about to land, he had instinctively jerked his body to the left, just barely altering the position where the makeshift javelin impaled him.

 _Lancer, is your spirit_ _core_ _intact?_ His Master's voice inside his head. She had calmed down now that she'd taken a few moments to study the situation. Lancer felt blessed to have a Master who was also aged and experienced.

 _Somehow, yeah. If that attack had hit me just a centimeter further to the left, I'd be dead already._ He reassured her. The spirit core was an organ that served as the center of a Servant's body, filling a role in their livelihood comparable to the human heart. The magecraft that went into its construction was the most advanced and powerful of the Servant's entire body, and because of this it was the one thing no master, no matter how powerful, would be able to heal if it were injured.

 _Thank heavens! I'll heal you in an instant, but that cut is ghastly. There are limits to how much I can repair it with a remote healing spell. Get away from this enemy as soon as you can, and return to me, my_ _S_ _ervant. Do you need me to use a command seal?_

Saber finally began to make his move, walking toward his downed foe with sword in hand. Lancer didn't raise his head to track his movements, but he could hear the vibrations of his heavy greaves with every step he took toward him.

 _No, no, the healing will do. I hate to make requests when I just put you through such a scare, but I have a favor to ask. He's coming up_ _to_ _give the 'coup de grace', it's thoughtful of him to want to give me a painless death, and I'm not such an ingrate as to waste the kind_ _n_ _ess of others. Hold off on your restoring spell until the last possible moment._

Saber closed the distance between the two of them, coming to a stop beside Lancer's left shoulder. Lancer could see his feet halt with his toes just shy of where the pool of blood beneath him ceased, and he gripped the shaft of his lance with all the strength his damaged body could muster, forcing his eyes to remain focused.

"Valiant warrior of the lance. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you." Saber said, extending his sword straight in front of him, and then raising it into the air, ready to decapitate his enemy with a swipe. "Farewell."

His arm began to arc downward, and in that instant a flash of light twinkled from the woodlands beside them. The light touched Lancer's body, and he lurched upward. It was an awkward blow, as it was difficult to put force behind a thrust while laying prone on his back, but he whipped his spear around all the same. Saber saw the attack, and swayed his body to the side as the spear's blade came an inch away from slashing into his face. Like the fangs of a wolf, the blade instead struck his right shoulder, and a thunderous _CLANG_ echoed through the air as it tore through the plating with ease, making similar short work of the mail beneath it, and rewarding itself with the trail of red liquid that began to run down its bronze jaw.

Saber recoiled with a surprised gasp, although that surprise was where most of his reaction came from. There was little force behind the attack, due to the awkward angle at which it was thrown, and thus the resulting injury was only skin deep. Were it not for his spear's armor piercing skill, it would have glided away from Saber harmlessly. Lancer didn't miss this moment of opportunity, though, arching onto his side and pushing himself up and away from his foe, regaining his feet a short distance from him.

 _Thanks, Master, you saved me._ Lancer cocked his head downward, watching as the glowing magic set itself to work- the blood flow halting, and the flesh which had been parted pulling itself back together, as though being sewn by invisible thread. He had asked her to wait until the last possible moment to cast her spell, but didn't think she would be able to time it so perfectly. Clearly she truly was able to conduct her magic through those symbols instantly.

 _Your wound was deep, Lancer. There are limits to how well I can heal you remotely. Run away as soon as you can, and return to me. If you keep fighting, it'll reopen in no time._ It was true that the pain he felt hadn't faded, or even ceased to be intense, although his chest was no longer gaping for all to see through it. He returned his attention to saber, who was looking thoughtfully at the wound in his shoulder, covering it with a hand in absent contemplation. After a moment, this intense silence was broken by his raucous, joyful laughter. He laughed with such intensity that he threw his head and shoulders back, leveling his sword at Lancer as his expression of joy came to an end.

"Wonderful!" For the first time since they had met, Saber did nothing to disguise the intense excitement he felt. He practically shouted, still stifling laughter as he spoke. "Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! You surpass my expectations! Truly you are Hektor: Tamer of horses!"

"You figured me out, already, huh?" Lancer frowned and shook his head, but wasn't surprised. He had came close to shouting the true name of his noble phantasm before he was rudely interrupted. Saber took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down from the high he was experiencing.

"A bronze spear with the blade of a sword, leather armor, and the ability to pierce defenses. Who could you be aside from the heroic prince of Troy, and rival to Achilles?" Saber tossed his sword from his right hand to his left, opening and closing the fingers of his right hand, as though testing that they were still working properly.

"Calling me his 'rival' is being a bit kind. I was just the man unlucky enough to be standing in his way." Lancer took his stance again, legs spread to shoulder width, and spear gripped tightly. He would have to be patient and look for the right moment to flee.

"Yours is a noble humility, but you've proven your skill in evading death. I dishonored you to even consider ending your life with anything other than my true Noble Phantasm. I'll know the truth of the matter when I've claimed the grail, and am afforded the opportunity to defeat Achilles myself." At the very least, 'noble humility' was not something anyone could accuse Saber of possessing.

Apparently satisfied with his inspection of his hand, Saber returned his sword to its original position, turning his body so that only his side faced Lancer and the tip of his sword pointed toward his opponent. A fencing stance? Lancer didn't have the luxury of pondering it, as no sooner had Saber taking his pose than he leaped forward with great speed, and their fight resumed where they'd left it.

 **Archer/Rider duel continues**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

12:16 PM

Rider fell backwards, landing on his rear as his mind raced. He wasn't sure what happened. There was intense pain in his legs, and he could see the bullet holes there, one for each of his knee caps. He knew he'd been shot, that much was clear, but what he couldn't figure out was when. He had fired his 'artillerie sperrfuer' and won. He saw its light envelop and disintegrate Archer's body. No, wait, Archer attacked him first. He'd been shot in the knees, and the sudden pain caused him to jerk his arm the attack missed him. No, no, wait- that was why he was so confused, he vividly remembered both outcomes!

While Rider began to hyperventilate, staring at his wounded legs as though they were some exotic animal he had never seen before, Archer recomposed himself, pushing his weight off the tree he had been leaning on and testing out his footing. His side was still in pain, but he could at least walk now. He wanted to shoot Rider in the heart or the head when he attacked, but had noticed earlier in the fight, when he was pressed against it, that the 'Panzer Seele' barrier originated from a central point, and grew weaker the further it extended from it. He figured it was better to certainly disable Rider's legs than to take the chance of not penetrating deep enough to kill him.

Archer could understand his confusion. Cognitive dissonance was a natural reaction to his Noble Phantasm. The 'James Brothers' Lightning Draw' was his ultimate attack, and it was utterly unremarkable. He simply fired a round from his Colt Navy revolver, and for that instant his brother, Frank, would manifest and fire one of his own. Two attacks from his regular weapon, both only slightly stronger than the ones he always fired, nothing more than that. Well, there was one tiny detail that he would hesitate to call attention to: No matter the circumstance, it was a shot that always struck before the enemy's attack.

When Rider's turret released its energy at him, Archer had declared the true name of his Noble Phantasm, and in so doing activated his ultimate attack. A shell of energy was already hurling toward him at a speed greater than sound, so a counterattack should have been unrealistic, however, Archer's Noble Phantasm always struck first. If reality tried to contradict this absolute truth of his ability, then his ability would warp reality itself. His Noble Phantasm wasn't much in terms of offense, but if timed correctly it was an almost impregnable defense.

"What was that?" Rider asked, his voice expressing a calm that he didn't feel. Soldiers had to be ready for unexpected events if they wanted to survive the battlefield. He remained seated on the ground, but raised one arm forward, allowing the turret to manifest once again beneath it- a last ditch effort to prevent Archer from continuing on the offensive.

"Don't reckon I know what you mean. I have a reputation for being the fastest on the draw. You said something about going out of your way to take my legs earlier, right? 'Least I could do was return the favor." That was all Archer was willing to share. Rider may have been the kind of person who felt honor-bound to reveal every secret he had, but Archer intended to jealously guard any advantage he could muster. If people call you underhanded, at least you're still alive to hear it.

Rider sighed, raising his free hand to the brim of his hat and straightening it. He closed his eyes for a moment, gritting his teeth, and releasing a pained grunt as he forced himself up, steadying himself with one arm as he tried to push his damaged legs beneath him. Archer took the opportunity to fire two rounds at him, knowing they would be blocked, but figuring that even doing that much would be a drain on his energy. Rider paid him no mind, and with some effort did eventually succeed at standing, an impressive feat of willpower considering he'd had his kneecaps shot. Still, Archer was confident this was all he could do.

His first task completed, Rider cast a glance over his shoulder toward his Master. As he feared, his firing of 'artillerie sperrfuer', even though he had only done so once, had taken its toll on the boy. He had fallen onto his hands and knees, the denim of his jeans becoming dusted by the brown dirt beneath him as he writhed about, and he made retching noises while cursing under his breath. Rider shook his head, returning his attention to archer, who continued to fire rounds into his barrier at a steady rhythm, patiently trying to wear him down.

At the very least, he could assume that Archer was as immobilized as he was. Given the way he fought before, if he were capable of moving freely, he would already have strafed around Rider and attacked his Master directly. The fact that he seemed content to continue attacking Rider meant that doing so now wasn't an option, and if he tried to move slowly toward Dean, Rider would move to intercept him, even if he had to crawl on his arms to do it. In spite of this good fortune, Rider had no moves left.

Could he fire again? Maybe, but he still had no idea what Archer had done to his attack last time, and if that happened again it could prove disastrous. To say nothing of the strain just one shot had placed on his master. Draining a magus of mana wasn't as simple as tiring them out: to deplete their reserve entirely would be lethal, and Dean didn't have a whole lot of it to begin with. Rider would have to use his body's own reserve of mana to continue the assault. This would last him a few more shots easily enough, but if he pushed too far he would eventually kill himself in the same way.

As a Rider he did have one large ace up his sleeve: his vehicle! For the Rider class, the steed they rode into battle was as much a part of their bodies as their limbs and blood, and for Rider himself, this steed was the Neubaufahrzeug. The massive battle tank that, in reality, had never been more than a propaganda rumor the Nazis used to boost the image of their power, was brought to life as a supernatural weapon for him. He could manifest the tank around his body at any time, shielding himself and giving him mobility again. Unfortunately, to do so, he would have to focus the energy he was currently feeding into his 'Panzer Seele' into creating it, and his enemy was giving him no break from the bullets raining down on him.

This impasse continued for another minute, with Archer firing at Rider, and Rider frantically trying to find a way to turn the tables. Dean continued to writhe on the ground, completely forgotten by them. He tucked his arms and legs together, entering the fetal position as he whimpered in pain.

"God damn it!" He attempted to shout, but due to his diminished condition it was more of a loud whisper. His limbs felt rubbery, as if he had gone without eating for a day, and his skin felt hot and cold at the same time. His head was spinning, and any attempt he made to focus his eyes only served to make his vision blurrier. "God damn it! God damn it! God damn it!"

He tried to stand, making it only as far as to crawl upon his knees. He shook his head, deciding this was good enough, and began to slowly crawl toward the dueling servants. His progress was gradual and laborious, with his diminished body reacting to ever few inches of progress as though he had just finished running a marathon. Sweat began to pour down his brow, but he set his discomfort aside, cursing and growling as he inched toward his goal like a worm.

Becoming a Master was supposed to be the first step he took toward being taken seriously. His mother, his teachers, his worthless shitbag father: for as long as he could remember, every adult he had ever encountered treated him like an annoyance, paying him only patronizing attention and always making decisions without care of how he felt. If he made a name for himself as a mage- if he claimed the friggin' Holy Grail? They might finally realize his value. It would shut all of the people who looked down on him right the hell up!

His crawling made still more progress. Inch after inch he approached Rider's back, unzipping his coat as he reached within it for the hidden pockets sewn into the inside stitching. Becoming a Master didn't change anything, though. Rider, his Servant, an entity who was literally supposed to exist to do his bidding, treated him like a kid. Archer, that jackass, looked down on him to such an extent that he had completely ceased to pay attention to him. He would literally only need to adjust his head a few inches to see Dean making progress toward them, but he didn't. He was so sure that Dean would be worthless that he didn't need to be on his guard against him.

God it pissed Dean off! He wasn't a joke, and his enemies had sure as hell not lower their guards when he was around. His hand found its target inside his coat, withdrawing a long, black cylinder. It was metallic, and shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. He gripped the smooth exterior firmly, breathing deeply, and placing his other hand on the small ring of metal at its top. Just a little closer…

Dean recalled what Rider had told him before the fighting had started. He could create his tank around both of them if they were close together. Dean would have to make sure he was close enough for both of them to be inside it before he gave him his opportunity to summon it! Still, that big attack Rider had fired earlier had taken its toll on him, to such an extent that he felt more like a used tube of toothpaste than a man, and it took all the self control he could muster to prevent himself from blacking out just from the strain of crawling the ten feet that separated him from his servant.

His persistence was rewarded, though. He had closed his eyes to try to fight of the disorientation caused by his unfocused pupils trying to comprehend what went on around him, and as he extended his arm to grope another few inches forward into the unseen terrain before him, his hand came to an early halt as it pressed against the smooth, shined leather of the back of Rider's boot. Dean smirked, his grip on the cylinder growing tighter as he clenched his hand in triumph. Rider had felt his touch, and cast an eye behind himself to find his master's crumpled form staring up at him.

"Don't gawk at me, traitor. You know what to do." Dean hissed, tugging on the metal pin at the base of his cylinder. The pin pulled away with minimal resistance, and he reared back his arm, tossing the now-armed grenade in an arc directly forward. Dean's strength was so diminished that the grenade didn't travel far, but it could still accomplished its goal. The cylinder twirled end over end as it soared up and over Rider, and Dean could only hope that Archer took the bait.

All of this was invisible to Archer until he saw the gleam of a black object suddenly fly over Rider's head. He moved instinctively, adjusting his aim upward and firing a round into the cylinder, causing it to explode into a flash of brilliant light. The afternoon sun was burning bright behind it, so its stunning effect wasn't tremendous, but in halting his attack on Rider, even for a moment, Archer had inadvertently allowed their escape. As he moved to return the barrel of his gun to them, all that greeted his sight was a wall of dark black steel.

 **Lancer/Saber duel continues**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **12:28 PM**

The tip of Saber's sword was pushed forward in a violent thrust, so quickly that the air around it was audibly displaced the attack. Lancer slipped his neck, moving his head just an instant before the blade rammed through the space it had previously occupied. Saber was moving his arm like a piston, bringing his sword forward with enough force to reach his desired target, and then immediately withdrawing it, beginning the next assault before Lancer could mount a counterattack.

Like night and day. It was as though the opponent Lancer had been fighting for almost an hour was suddenly replaced by someone else, and his replacement was superior in every way. Gone were those heavy blows that could easily be predicted and dodged. His sword no longer soared beyond its target and carved the environment around it. Every swing and thrust was compact now; fired at such rapid speed that it took all of Lancer's instinct and reflex to stay ahead of him.

Lancer gritted his teeth, a mix of dread and respect filling him. It had all been for one attack. His opponent's fighting style had been as melodramatic as possible. He made wide swings so that Lancer would feel tempted to capitalize on his openings. He went out of his way to destroy the environment around them so that Lancer would eventually stop paying attention to the collateral damage of their fight, and would open himself up to that surprise attack of his. This man, whoever he was, had committed forty minutes of fighting to pretending to be a completely different fighter, and he had done it all in the name of creating just the perfect situation to draw Lancer into opening himself up… so he could kill him in a single strike.

Lancer may have owed his experience to escaping death that once, but it was hard to be especially proud of it, given the current situation. Saber was no longer engaging in elaborate strategies. He intended to outfight Lancer with raw skill now, and with every minute that passed in their duel he came closer to doing so. No matter the style Saber used, it felt like the entire fight had seen Lancer a single mistake away from death. Was he truly so outclassed that the best he could do against this enemy was to stave off defeat by fighting defensively? Well, that was fine. He was actually quite good at defensive battles.

The two clashed again, their weapons crossed between them as each pushed against the other with all his strength, both trying to take control of the center of balance between them. This new style Saber was using was troublesome. It would be impossible to find a way to retreat if he kept attacking so precisely. Would Lancer need to rely on his master's Command Spell, after all? He met Saber's eyes, and the other man seemed to be looking beyond him. He no longer expressed any emotions, as he now focused on every attack. He really did remind Lancer of his old rival.

Suddenly, both men became aware of impending danger. They disengaged, each jumping backward just in time to avoid an enormous black blur that raced between them, crashing into one of the trees beside the lot before finally drawing to a stop. They both looked over at the intruder, their duel momentarily forgotten.

An enormous tank had roared past them with such tremendous force that the asphalt beneath them had been torn away to reveal the dark earth beneath it. The marks of its massive treads extended from the campsite in the woods where its owners had been watching earlier, and every tree and fixture between there and here was uprooted and pushed away by the vehicle's advance without managing to slow it at all.

Its size couldn't be understated. Lancer was, understandably, not familiar with what constituted an 'average' tank, but even he knew this one was exceptional. It stood around twelve feet tall, and almost twice that in length. The treads themselves were half of this mass, couched beneath a body of thick, black metal. The top of the machine was home to the turret, which extended imposingly beyond the length of the vehicle itself, with a barrel that looked to house rounds that were ten inches across.

"Forgive my disruption, gentlemen!" A man's voice could be heard booming from within the tank, amplified by a speaker that could be seen attached to the chassis. "I was in such a hurry to move, I neglected to pay attention to where I was going!"

"Screw the apology, let's just get going!" A younger man's voice argued. The tank began to move again, reversing its direction before halting again, as if the one controlling it was uncertain of where he wanted to go.

"Your offense in interrupting us is a great one." Spat Saber, taking a step toward the vehicle. Lancer was more than happy to accept this opening to retreat, but something wasn't right. Saber was no longer moving. The tank was no longer moving. Lancer tried to step away from them, but his body refused to cooperate. His legs seemed rooted to the ground by an unseen force, and all attempts to struggle forward met with failure. He jerked his head toward Saber, and saw him straining in much the same way, his lip turned up in a grimace of disgust.

"That worked well!" Announced still another voice, this one so deep and booming that it could almost have belonged to God himself. Lancer attempted to track down the source of it, but with only his neck moving properly, he found no success.

"Still, almost an hour of preparation for just a few moments of paralysis isn't ideal. We'll have to work on our technique, Caster. Ah, but where are my manners?" The voice continued. "I appreciate that the lot of you are busy, but would you kindly consider calling the battle a draw for now? My name is Arthur Iweala, the Master of Caster, and I would like to take this opportunity to make my declaration of war."


	5. First Conflict's Conclusion

**Chapter 5:**

 **First Conflict's Conclusion**

 **Lancer/Saber** **duel** **continues**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **12:42 PM**

Saber clicked his tongue, his eyes focusing as directly upon the intruder as his paralyzed neck would allow. The man calling himself 'Arthur Iweala' had appeared at the other edge of the paved parking area, wreathed so aboslutely in a cloud of magical fog that most of his body was naught but a wavering, concealed shadow. Only the fierce gaze of his dark eyes, and the stern expression on his firm, jutting jaw, was clearly visible.

Beside him, equally shrouded by the mist, was a beautiful young woman. Her eyes, dark brown save for the silvery spider web design that extended from her pupil, were softer than her companion's, and the full, lush red expanse of her lips were turned up at the corners in patronizing amusement. Saber felt safe in assuming that she was Caster. He could feel an intense swell of energy radiating from her.

When his body had initially frozen in place, he had to struggle to accomplish even the most rudimentary movements, but he could feel the resistance to his muscles lessening with each passing moment. After assessing Arthur for another instant, he was able to return his gaze to the front of him, and looked down to see if he could figure out what had paralyzed him. To his surprise, he could now see thousands of thin, almost invisible fibers extending from the ground and attaching themselves all over his body. His skin was numb at every point one of the fibers connected to him, even through the armor protecting it, and the combined effect of so many strands touching him at once had effectively locked his body in place.

Spider webs? This trap did indeed have the stench of a Caster about it. This would also explain why he was recovering so quickly: the Saber class had a strong natural resistance to magecraft. Still, his legs and feet had been covered in threefold the number of webs as his upper body, so while he was now almost freely able to move his arms and neck, his mobility remained sealed.

"Do something! Move, God damn it! There's no air in here, I'm suffocating!" The shrill shout of a teenage voice erupted from the speakers of large tank Saber had been approaching before Caster made his move. The black steel of the war machine was so burdened by the strands of spider silk sent out to freeze it that it almost seemed to have been painted white. Saber was impressed, despite himself. It wasn't just flesh? Machines could be paralyzed using the webs, as well? It was contemptible skill that served only to engender cowardice, but it had utility, at the very least.

"I assure you the hull of this vehicle is well-ventilated. We're connected, Master, so I'd know well if you were suffocating." Reassured an older voice through the same speaker. The sound of striking metal could be heard within the tank. A single loud thud, followed by a second, and on the third strike the hatch atop the turret shivered violently and allowed itself to be forced open, shredding the webs that had been sealing it shut. Rider's gloved hand emerged from within, his fingers curled into a fist. He withdrew it, then slid his upper body through the passage, peering down at the machine he had been trapped in with a deep frown.

"It's not kaput, simply covered in gunk. Did this stuff come out of the ground? Either way we probably shouldn't touch them, which will make leaving the tank a problem, at the moment." Rider slid one of his hands up under his cap scratching his head as he ruminated.

"I assure you, the binding is momentary, especially for yourself, Saber." Arthur spoke, taking a setp out of the mist. He was dressed formally: with a gray twead coat sheltering him from the morning chill, below which were a pair of belted black slack and feet clad in wing-tipped dress shoes. "I confess to it being a dramatic gesture, but I could think of no better way to claim your attention."

Even as Arthur began to step toward Saber and the others, his servant made no move. They appeared to be carelessly confident in their ability to keep him pinned in place, Saber thought. Out loud, he simply responded with, "Now you have it. Make your declaration, that Lancer and I may resume our battle." Arthur paused at this, arching his brow in concern.

"I'll happily do so, but regardless of brevity, I fear your duel with Lancer has been postponed, for now." He said, his voice carrying a tone of false condolence. This caught the servant's attention, and he jerked his gradually recovering upper body toward the place where his rival had before been standing. Nothing there remained, save for empty air. He surveyed the area quickly, an annoyed grunt escaping him as he realized that Lancer had somehow escaped in all the confusion.

"It seems Lancer's Master holds some impressive abilities. She was able to extricate him from our trap almost as quickly as we could spring it." explained Arthur, shrugging his shoulders. Worse still, Saber, your invitation was declined by Berserker and Assassin, so only have the audience I hoped for is in attendance, but alas. I'm confident all three of them are sill in a position to hear my words, even if they've declined to make their presence known."

"I have been granted the honor of participating in this war as the Master of Caster. It is a role I take seriously, and I intend to be the first representative of the four cavalry classes to remain standing at the moment the Holy Grail is made manifest. Unfortunately, doing so will require me to bide my time, and at times to wage war in a cowardly and strike from the shadows using trickery and deception-"

"So, do it then." Dean had poked his head out from the confines of the hull he had been sheltered in. He only raised himself up enough that half his face could be seen, as he didn't dare to expose himself after having come so close to being murdered so many times that morning. "You thuggish types are good at hiding in the dark like cowards, so what's the issue?"

"Adorable." Said Arthur with a polite smile. He wouldn't have argued with the assessment that he was a thug, though a part of him was curious how the boy came to such a conclusion, given that he had been nothing if not polite since his arrival. However, he then became aware of the swastika embedded in Dean's left ear, and his smile grew slightly wider.

"Utterly adorable," He continued, "Far be it for me to compare my courage to yours, brave turtle, but I've appeared before you today because I suffer from the same malady that clearly plagues you: daddy issues. My father is indeed a," he cleared his throat, "'thug', as you say, but what good are future generation if we can't endeavor to be more noble than those who came before us? Yes, I will use deception and trickery. I will strike from the shadows as a proper Caster should, if it will bring me victory. However, not before I've introduced myself. Those I intend to kill will know my face, my name, and my intentions long before I come for them. That is how a man should wage war."

"You and me got nothing in common, jackass." Spat an annoyed Dean, who grimaced and narrowed his eyes, his face flush with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Beside him, Rider beamed at Arthur, raising his hands and drawing them together in soft applause. Of course hearing that would make Rider happy. He had another wannabe 'gentleman' to bond with.

Saber said nothing. Instead, he was focused on forcing the tips of his toes to raise from the ground just a fraction of an inch. Once he accomplished this the first time, he repeated it over and over until he was able to do it without difficulty, and then he moved on to trying to move more of his foot.

This opponent was the kind Saber was least fond of- overly clever, and absolutely confident in their trickery. To set up an elaborate trap such as this was just a bluff. Saber knew that whatever her master may claim, if Caster had the ability to kill her enemies here, he would have made her do so. These few minutes of paralysis were likely all she was capable of, right now, and had taken so much of her energy she couldn't even follow it up with an attack.

Saber's thoughts were interrupted, however, when the abrupt thunder of a gunshot rang out. Something struck Arthur in the back of his head, causing his upper body to sway forward violently, with Caster jumping forward to clutch him as he lost his balance. The captivated audience looked to find the source of the shot, and there stood Archer. He was far back, near the mouth of the woods where he and Rider had done battle before, brandishing his pistol with his brow furrowed in concentration.

"I almost admire his consistency," Mused Rider, stroking his chin with one hand while the other protectively pushed Dean's head back beneath the protective hull of his tank. "He just won't give up until he manages to shoot someone in the back."

"Indeed. He missed his calling as an assassin." Agreed Arthur. He leaned on his servant to support him as he regained his footing. The bullet had struck true, but there was no blood erupting from the wound. Instead, the skin around the bullet's entry point was cracked and splintered. The array of cracks spread out in a pattern from this point of origin, audibly cracking as the lines drew around his head and covered one of his dark cheeks. He cleared his throat, smiling apologetically at Caster before returning his attention to the group he had gathered. Looking at him was like staring at a reflection in a broken mirror. Behind them, Archer hissed, baring his teeth and grimacing as he realized that, once again, his practicality had been wasted.

"The range of our webs didn't extend quite as far as we dared to hope, it seems." Arthur said, bringing two of his fingers to his cheek and absently rubbing the cracks that had been carved into the skin.

"Is that criticism I hear, master? You should be standing in awe and expressing unending gratitude that I have so many Noble Phantasms in the first place. It's your expectation, not my power, that needs adjusting." She puffed out her cheeks, flailing her arms in a way that caused the long, black sleeves of her dashiki to envelop her hands. Making her pout would be somewhat cute, but it wouldn't do to upset her.

"Don't misunderstand: I'm not complaining. I've made you go through all this trouble just to appease my ego, knowing we haven't had time to gather proper mana. It's good to learn our limitations now rather than at a time when it might cost us victory." He looked back at her and nodded sincerely, hoping the gesture sufficed to express his gratitude for her service. She nodded back, her slight frown turning into a bright smile.

"For that, there is no need for apology. Some may condemn a man for arrogance, but I know well that pride is the sweetest of all liquors. Do as your ego commands you, my master, and I, the wisest of all spiders, shall support you. As for you, Archer?" she shouted this last sentence suddenly, turning around and extending an arm, as if in invitation, toward the would-be killer of her master. Archer squared his formation and raised his pistol, preparing for the coming battle. However, Caster simply jerked her shoulder forward, allowing her hand to break free from the silken sleeve that contained it, revealing a single black spider nestled warmly in her palm.

"Do you truly have the time to tarry here, brave Archer?" Inquired Caster, enunciating her words as carefully as her west-African accent would allow. She knew archer would attack without listening if she played games, and she was quite exhausted this afternoon. "My friends have been whispering concerning rumors in my ear. You may play at the role of assassin, but one among our number fills the role for true. If you waste too much more time here, you won't have a Master anymore."

Archer's finger hugged the trigger of his Colt Navy revolver, as he payed only half a mind to her words. He knew that trick she'd used had to have been draining. If he was quick, he could kill three servants in an instant. However, her final sentence succeeded in sticking out in his brain, causing him to pause for just a moment. He closed his eyes, focusing his brain power on a sense other than sight, and he grew still. Suddenly, his eyes burst open, widening in distress as he lowered his weapon.

"Dammit… dammit!" He exclaimed, turning away from the battle. His body evaporated into the air as he took his spirit form, and Caster could feel his energy moving away from them rapidly. Caster laughed at this. For all his bravado, this Archer was the kind to get genuinely attached to those close to him. She didn't hate that trait in people, though in his case she felt like it would contribute to his death.

"Sorry, Master," She said, returning her attention to him. "I warned him of his Master's danger without asking you for permission first." She raised her sleeve to her face to conceal her smile. Arthur simply shook his head.

"It was the correct decision. Archer may yet have value to us in this battle, and we couldn't be sure his Master would die before he could do us harm. We'll just have to remind him of our generosity at some time in the future."

Arthur suddenly became aware of the feeling of a cold metallic weight against his shoulder, and looked to the side to see that a broad European longsword had its flat resting against him, the blade resting half an inch from his neck. Arthur leaned back just far enough to catch the glimpse of Saber's determined blue eyes staring straight through him.

"I have surmised that these bodies are some matter of illusion, trickster." Saber said cooly, jerking his wrist so that the blade of his weapon slid along the flesh of Arthur's neck. He was able to cut it easily enough, although it had a consistency closer to stone than to skin, and as he predicted, no blood soaked his sword in response to the wound. "However, your real selves must be somewhere nearby. I confess to some temptation. My pride would be satisfied to see you punished for your interruption of my duel."

"Maybe so, but are you the kind of man who would die for his pride?" Responded Arthur. If the threat Saber posed him caused him any discomfort, none showed in either his voice or his manner. He remained still as the blade cut into him. "As you guessed, we're quite nearby, and with your sharp senses and ability to perceive magic, you could likely find us and cut us down before we managed to escape."

"Yet you're confident I won't." Said Saber. He wasn't surprised. This kind of person never exposed themselves to danger without a backup plan of some kind.

"Oh, I can't be completely sure you won't. I don't know you. However, I can safely say that you'd regret it if you did." His cadence didn't change, he just continued to gaze back at Saber, as if daring him to make the next move.

"Wherefore?" Arthur's arrogance infuriated Saber, but he hadn't been elevated to the status of a living legend by letting his emotions rule him. Perhaps if he had been a young soldier again he would recklessly charge through whatever trap Caster had planned, if only to show them that his might was absolute, but he had promised his Master he would return.

"Well, it's partially your fault. You chose this place to be your battlefield because you knew it had a leyline running directly beneath it, right?" Leylines were like rivers of mana that flowed through the planet, delivering magical energy throughout the world like veins delivering blood. It was due to the magic cycling in the planet that all magi were able to ply their craft, and for a Servant, who needed a constant supply of mana to remain manifest, being near a leyline could indirectly empower them. "I'm sure you chose the location so that your opponents would be able to fight you with all their power, so I did just that. By tapping into the leyline's power, Caster was able to employ her 'Web of the Wise Spider" noble phantasm to trap you without difficulty."

"Likewise, however, if you insist upon ending my bid for the Holy Grail this afternoon, the leyline beneath us will enable me to be quite petty." Arthur raised his right arm into the air, letting Saber look at the command seal tattoo which had been branded there. Two diamonds, one on top of the other, creating the image of a spider's body, with four lines on either side of it. "I cannot escape if you decide you won't allow me. Therefore, if you insist upon hunting me down, instead of running, I'll use a command seal. I'll order Caster to channel all of her mana into the leyline beneath us. Since a command seal was used, mana from the grail will be added to her own, which will be more than enough to destabilize the flow of mana, resulting in a magical explosion comparable to small scale nuclear detonation. Everything within two miles of us will be swallowed in a sea of fire."

Saber's eyes grew wide, surprised, even in spite of himself. It was one thing to want to take out your opponent if you knew you would die anyway, but if he followed through with this threat it would be a disaster. They were just outside the limits of Central City. The death toll would be in the thousands.

"Arthur Iweala, so this is the kind of man you are." Hissed saber, the sword at Arthur's shoulder began to vibrate as the Servant trembled in anger.

"Use whichever term pleases you." Arthur replied. "Cowardly, cruel, reckless, evil. I'll bear your judgment. I'm absolutely devoted to my goal. I will do everything I can to make it a reality. If ever I find myself in a position where my goal becomes impossible, then I don't care what happens after that. I'll take the ball and go home, the world be damned. Now then, the choice falls on you, Saber, what will you do."

The two men stood still, and a chilly autumn breeze washed over them. Finally, with a defeated sigh, Saber withdrew his sword from Arthur's neck, letting it slice through the air beside him before returning it to the sheath belted to his side. He turned away from the Master, walking off without looking back.

"If Lancer has departed, then none who remain here are worthy of my attention. Band together with one another, and refine your trickery for when next we meet. Before the in absolute truth of my power, it will all be found wanting. I will see you dead before this war concludes, Arthur Iweala." He looked over to the enormous black tank that had interrupted his fight at first, his eyes meeting Rider's for a moment. He said nothing, and after that moment he looked away, his body evaporating into spiritron particles as he left.

"I daresay I upset him. Well, that just makes fighting easier, no?" Arthur chuckled, and he called out to Rider. "Well, it's just the two of us, now. Do you object to my withdrawal?" Rider shook his head.

"Get out of here. My Master has had enough for today. Hearing your words today, I thought perhaps he were kindred spirits, but I see that I was wrong. As a gentleman and a hero, I can't allow someone like you to obtain the Holy Grail. If we meet again, I will fight you to the bitter end." Rider adjusted his cap, his eyes narrowed. Arthur's chuckling transformed into full-on laughter for a moment, but he calmed himself.

"You wound me, but despite myself I enjoy your honesty. Be well, Rider. Warn your master to be careful that he doesn't hurt himself with all that edge, now." With a final, wide smile, Arthur looked to Caster, the two of them nodded, and the images of them vanished instantly. In their place, a pair of small, white objects appeared hovering in the air, which fell to the ground with an audible 'thunk'. With that, all who had gathered that morning were now gone.

Rider inhaled sharply, holding the breath for a moment before releasing it. He raised his wrist, drawing back the sleeve of his jacket to check his watch. It was just past 1 P.M. The fighting had only lasted for about an hour and a half, and no one had been killed yet. Perhaps he owed his life to nothing but fortune, considering how close he came to death. He was a weak Servant, and he had a weak Master, but as long as he was alive, he had hope. He would be able to undo his mistake, and become a true hero, if only he could be the one to grasp the Holy Grail.

"Master? You've been quiet. Are you alright?" He peered down into the cockpit. Inside the tank there was a seat positioned in front of an array of controls, but behind that there was a great empty area that was just large enough for a grown man to lay prone. It was here that Dean lay, curled into the fetal position, and staring at his knees with a blank expression on his face.

"Rider?" Dean asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

"What's wrong, Master?"

"This is real, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is." Rider frowned, understanding what Dean was experiencing. This was likely the first time in his entire life he had ever experienced a battle. Dean closed his eyes, balling his hands into fists as he shuddered.

"I was so sure I was going to die. I thought I was dead." His voice was strained, and he began scratching at his arms to help him fight back tears. Now that the pressure was off, the emotions were hitting him all at once. The high of combat was a great mask for pain and fear, but once it faded away, those emotions always remained.

"Master, you're still a kid. If you don't want to-"

"To hell with whatever you're about to say!" Shouted Dean, slamming his fist against the metal wall. "I'm in this stupid fucking thing until the end!"

A moment passed in silence, but finally Dean followed himself up with "...But, can I please have some time? Just a little time to sort all this out?"

"I would happily give you what you wish, my Master, but I'm afraid before we take any time to relax, we have many, many cobwebs that must be cleared off of Neubaufahrzeug before I can take us home."

 **G** **lenda the Good Witch**

 **Outside** **Route 13 Truck Park and Campsite**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **01:15 PM**

Lancer walked down the side of the road, using his spear as a makeshift walking stick to help him keep his balance as he headed away. He could have entered his spirit form and traveled more easily, but something about the mix of the warm sun and the cool autumn air pleased him, and he decided he'd spoil himself and take it easy. He had remained as near the battle as he dared, just to make sure he didn't miss out on any information that would make his Master's battle easier. Saber seemed upset that he didn't finish their duel, and he did feel some guilt for abandoning his pride, but a man couldn't live his life in service to pride alone. He had something far more important to fight for.

 _Lancer, are you there?_ His Master's voice echoed through his head again. He smiled, and a bounce returned to his step, as he realized the panic that had been there earlier was gone now. If there was one thing he regretted the most about the battle, it was worrying her.

"Whole and hearty, Master. What's wrong?" He continued walking, speaking aloud as she transmitted her thoughts to him, and feeling a renewed appreciation for the small joys of being alive, after his close encounter with death.

 _A spider approached one of the 'Yggdrasil Roots' you carved for me. It must have been a familiar. It conveyed a message to me: Caster wants to meet us to discuss an alliance._ This caused Lancer to pause. He looked up to the clear blue sky, stroking his goatee thoughtfully.

"She does, does she? Suddenly their actions make a lot more sense." He said, thinking back over the events of the past hour.

 _What do you mean? Their declaration of war?_ Lancer shook his head, but then realized that she couldn't see that gesture, and promptly laughed at himself for being so careless.

"Not that, exactly, more the timing of it. Say, Master? Were you the one who freed me from those webs when Caster sprang her trap?"

 _It wasn't me. I could have done something if I knew the attack was coming, but it was all so abrupt, and once you were trapped I was powerless to assist you._

"I thought so. Caster's Master claimed you were the one who saved me, but I'm starting to suspect they may have been my saviors, this time." He resumed walking, as he was able to think more clearly while he was in motion.

 _You mean you think Caster released you from her trap on purpose?_ His Master's voice betrayed her confusion. He couldn't blame her for that. He was only half sure of what he thought just happened.

"More than that. The timing of the trap was suspicious, too. I don't mean to sell myself short, Master, but Saber had me outclassed and injured. I was going to escape at the first chance I got, but against an opponent of that caliber, such a chance was unlikely to come. Had our fight continued, it was only a matter of time before he struck me down." Lancer could hear his master gasp inside his mind; she clearly just made the same connection he had.

 _He interrupted your fight on purpose, then released you from the trap so that you could escape. He did it all to rescue you!_

"Well, I mean, I'm sure what he said about wanting to introduce himself to his enemies was true. I know that type well, and he did seem to be 'that' type. He set out intending to use that Noble Phantasm from the start, but decided on the timing after watching our fight. Whatever he may say, it would have been to his advantage to hold off on his trap until Saber and I had finished fighting. One of us would have killed off the other, reducing the number of enemies he would have to beat. Yet instead, he deliberately saved my life." There was a moment of silence as they thought the situation over.

 _He wasted no time proposing an alliance after he saved you. He probably thinks you're his best chance of defeating Saber._ Lancer nodded, only to remember that his master couldn't see it, and chuckle at himself for being silly.

"I think so, too. Saber has revealed himself to be the greatest threat in this Holy Grail War. The one who is able to defeat him may well be the one who wins the grail itself. He probably wants to pit one of the three knight classes against another, while his servant supports from a distance."

 _Such a situation may be best for us, too. Defeating Saber without help will be difficult._ He was honored by his Master's faith in him, but having crossed blades with Saber now, Lancer was doubtful that he could ever match him in single combat. Perhaps if they had fought in Troy? Regardless, at this time, and in this place, Saber would definitely be his most difficult enemy.

"I don't object to talking to them, Master, but we must be careful. Caster's Master has proven himself to be a dangerous man. If we're careless with him he'll betray us without hesitating. You stay in your workshop, behind your barriers. I'll meet them separately, and carve a 'Root of Yggdrasil' to allow you to witness the meeting and weigh in."

 _I'll arrange the meeting for tomorrow morning, then. If you have a moment, carve a root into a nearby tree. I'll try to finish healing you properly now that we have time._

 _"_ Whoa, now, Master! Meeting with Caster is one thing, but that's that and this is this. If you want to heal me properly, then you can do it at our home, after I've made us tea."

 _But Lancer, my-_

"Master, we're connected at a spiritual level. We're never apart. You can't protect me by forcing yourself to be alone. I'm already a pretty cursed guy. A little more misfortune won't hurt, so the least I can do is keep you company while we have this precious time together."

 _Lancer, I… Thank you. I'm so glad you're still alive._ Her voice broke as she said this, and he could hear her sobbing softly. He soothed her, smiling to himself as he continued his slow walk to her home. A Master who attempted to make a contract with a Servant was not guaranteed to find success. The servant in question would hear their plea, and decide whether to answer or not based on their character. Lancer was surprised when his Master made her summoning plea, for there was no avarice in her soul. She was just a lonely old woman with a wounded heart. He answered her plea because he felt pity for her, and fought now less for the grail, and more because he knew that as long as he was alive, his Master didn't need to be alone anymore.

 **W** **icked Witch of the West**

 **Route 13 Truck Park and Campsite**

 **September 22nd, 2030**

 **01:15 PM**

"Alright guys, we got another public service announcement for anyone living in downtown Central City." The booming voice of the radio announcer echoed from the speakers of the small red van. Yukiko was driving it down the narrow country road that connected the campsite grounds to the highway proper, her narrow brown eyes focused intensely on the task. She had some experience with driving, but American vehicles had the steering wheel on the opposite side to what she was used to, and she was always afraid she was measuring her turns incorrectl, especially on a damaged road like this one.

"The 'Central City Stalker' has struck again. A twenty-one year old student of Central University was found unconscious late last night when her friends became worried after she failed to return home. Witnesses claim they saw the stalker, described as a tall, lanky man of indeterminate age, fleeing from the scene as they approached. The victim suffered mild burns, but was otherwise unharmed. This makes the eighth attack in the past week to be attributed to the stalker, with two murder charges and three kidnapping charges currently pending upon his identification. Police are warning everyone to travel in pairs if leaving the house at night, and to report any strange activity or unfamiliar people to the nearest police officer."

Yukiko sighed and turned off the radio. She was supposed to eliminate any Masters in this grail war who allowed their Servants to make a scene, but she had a feeling she knew exactly who this 'Central City Stalker' was, and it was the one person she had to leave alone for now. It frustrated her to have to turn a blind eye to suffering she could have prevented, but she had long since learned that mage justice wasn't the same thing as justice for normal people. She tried to put it out of her mind. Besides, children didn't need to listen to stuff like this.

She looked into the back seat as she pulled to a park at the campsite. It turned out she didn't need to worry about the kids paying attention to anything. The two girls were seated side by side, each holding their cone of ice cream forward, staring at the desserts with their wide, bright-red eyes.

"See? Yours is bigger! Like, an inch more! It's not fair." Whined one of the girls to the other. She had silver hair that was cut off around her shoulders, and it framed her pouting face cutely as she balled her hand into a fist, as if to demand justice for the slight she had just suffered.

"Nu-uh. They're the same size." Insisted the girl beside her. She looked younger than the other girl, but also had silver hair, although she kept hers longer, and tied back in a ponytail. If someone didn't know better, they would likely assume they were nine or ten years old, a pair of bickering sisters. Such people would be right about their being 'sisters', depending on your definition of the term, but would be far off on the age. Neither of the girls was older than a year.

"Amalia, Ada, stop arguing, or you're not going to get any more ice cream this week." Chided Yukiko with a sigh, bringing the van to a stop and unhooking her seat belt. Most of the pavement had thick, deep gouges in it. It looked like the entire place had been hit by a tornado. Behind her, the younger-looking girl, Ada, decided that the ban on complaints meant she one the argument, so she stuck her tongue out at her sister. In response, Amalia promptly growled, then lurched forward to take a huge bite out of Ada's ice cream.

"Ah! Gross! That had my spit on it!" protested Ada. Yukiko sighed sharply and glared back at them, causing both girls to grow tense and stop moving. Yukiko shook her head at them, then stepped out of the vehicle. She pulled out the back door of the van and slid it back to set the children free, who hopped out curiously, and after making sure they both had their coats on, and that neither of them got ice cream on the interior of the vehicle, they were off.

Yukiko spent the next hour combing over the site, assessing the battle that had unfolded in her absence. It looked like at least two separate fights, maybe three… so most of the participants in the war had appeared here. She made sure no evidence of magecraft was left behind, anything that could reveal the hidden world of magi to the outsiders, but it seemed to be fairly well contained.

"um… Ms. Yukiko.." Amalia approached her as she worked, fidgeting awkwardly.

"What's wrong, Amalia? Need a bathroom?" Asked Yukiko absently. The little girl shook her head.

"No, I found these over there. They're for your work, right?" Corrected Amalia, holding up a pair of small objects. Yukiko was yanked from her thoughts by this, taking the objects into her hands and examining them carefully. They were about the same size as dolls, made from a white, stonelike substance, and had the likeness of a human carved into them. One of them had a bullet hole in the back of it, and had become badly cracked by the damage.

"Ivory dolls." Mused Yukiko, turning the objects in her hands. "African Magi have arts that can conjure doppelgangers from them. A non-magus probably wouldn't suspect anything if they saw one, but probably best we take it with us. Good catch, Amalia!" She tussled the little girl's head, who blushed at her praise.

It looked like they came out there for nothing. The other Masters may not all be true magi, but they seemed to be following the rules. This was a perfect location for battle, with no witnesses due to the weather, and no one had left anything too revealing behind. They were conducting this war like proper magi should. That was just fine, as far as Yukiko was concerned. If she didn't have to babysit the other Masters, she could focus on her real job: smoking out the ones organizing this war.

After an hour of investigating, she finally decided that the area had been scoured well enough, and she gathered the children to return home for the day. They returned to the parking lot, each girl holding one of her hands, but someone was waiting in front of their van for them upon their return. She was a beautiful young woman, with long brown hair, gentle green eyes, and pointed features. She was dressed in a red silk evening gown, given shape by a large crinoline beneath, which puffed the fabric out around her waist and gave her a bell-like appearance.

"My husband!" The strange woman declared, her eyes lighting up as she saw Yukiko approaching. She raised a hand to guide the woman over, jumping with excitement as she saw her. "Oh, my husband, there you are! I feared the worst when you weren't here upon my waking."

"Hello, Berserker." Yukiko greeted weakly, raising a hand in kind. "Awake already, huh? I guess I shouldn't have taken my break for granted." The group continued walking toward the car, and Berserker moved forward to greet them, leaping toward Yukiko and giving her a hug as big and full as the barrier of her hooped skirt would allow. It was tight enough to be painful, but not so bad that her life was in jeopardy, so Yukiko knew by now to just let her finish on her own.

"Darling, husband! Thank god you're alright. I would have burned the earth to the ground if something had happened to you!" Berserker cried tears of relief, rubbing her cheek to Yukiko's. Yukiko frowned wryly, trying to slip free from her grasp, but having no hope of matching a Berserker's strength.

Before this assignment started, she had lead a secret agent's life. She traveled around the world to do work for her employers, and had no time for family or friends. Now she suddenly had a wife and two kids… when in the hell did she become a family man?


End file.
